Refuge
by MMB
Summary: Margaret is on the run from the Centre - and Jarod enlists some unorthodox help in keeping her safe, with very unexpected consequences. NOW COMPLETE
1. Near Miss

Chapter 1 – Near Miss

The day started out like so many other days, with me sipping at my morning coffee and throwing a glance at the calendar. Today, however, it suddenly occurred to me that I had been at this job for nearly three months now – the longest I'd stayed in one place since…

No. I wouldn't think of that. I had ten minutes before the first bell would ring, and nearly three hundred elementary school children would thunder past the door of the school office on their way to yet another day of learning. Soon enough I'd have a delivery of about thirty hand-written excuses for absences in recent days – brief notes scrawled on anything from formal note paper to pieces of toilet paper that would need to be matched up against the individual student attendance records at the same time as I would mark down the new absences for the day. I was frankly surprised that the telephone wasn't already ringing – in my admittedly short experience, few days started out with a quiet cup of coffee…

"Morning, Peg," Clive Hudson, the principal, greeted me as he moved beyond my desk to the door to his private office. The corners of his green eyes were gathered together in laugh lines that seemed to etch themselves deeper into his bearded face every day. His wavy dark hair was mussed from being covered and then uncovered by a parka – winter had yet to entirely let go of the weather and was gifting us with another snowstorm. "Another day, another dollar…" he commented as he unzipped his parka and peeled the garment from his tall and lanky frame and then dangled it from an extended forefinger.

"Morning, Clive. Anything going on today special?" It was the same question I asked him everyday – mostly because I was new enough in the position that it helped to be warned of things a little in advance. The previous school secretary had taken a prolonged maternity leave – declaring that she intended not to return to her job until the beginning of the next school year. She'd briefed me on the major duties expected of me – but nothing could have prepared me for life as a school secretary.

"Nope – not even a fire drill's on the agenda." He chuckled at my look of relief. "Oh c'mon, Peg – you have to admit that we all need a little excitement in our lives at one time or another…"

"I've already had my share of excitement in my life, thank you," I told him perhaps a little more seriously than usual today, thanks to that little bit of revelation a moment earlier. "I'm ready for a nice long period of status quo."

"Why Margaret Charles!" he exclaimed as he opened his office door, turned on the light and deposited his briefcase on the chair just inside the door. "You've been holding out on me. Here and I thought you were just another mild-mannered but talented soccer mom needing to make pin money." He came up on one side of my desk and leaned down. "Maybe now is a good time to ask again if I could buy you dinner after work today so you can tell me all about this excitement of yours?" Those green eyes danced. "I've wanted to get to know you better ever since you took this job, you know…"

Quickly I shook my head. "I need to get home," I lied quickly. "I'm expecting a phone call from my son and I don't want to miss it."

I breathed yet another sigh of relief when Clive straightened. "One of these days you're going to give me a chance to get to know you a little better," he promised me – and I knew that I was in for one invitation after another until I finally relented if I didn't do something quick. Unfortunately, I was out of discouraging ideas at the moment.

"I don't think so," I said lamely and then shook my head at him and looked away. How could I tell him that I wasn't interested – that I was still mourning the death of my husband a year ago?

It had been Jarod who had finally found me and told me the news. Dan had had a heart attack, Jarod told me, while working as an airplane mechanic at another small, nameless airstrip – he had been fine one moment and then in the next…

It had been a very difficult way to truly meet my first-born son again for the first time in nearly thirty years – but we'd been able to cry on each other's shoulders for at least one evening before Jarod declared that he couldn't stay and that I should think of moving on as well before the Centre tracked me down. I'd packed my bags, phoned in my resignation the very next morning and evaporated in the opposite direction from my son.

I also had learned that horrible, tragic night that my family had increased by two through no effort of my own – that Jarod now had what he insisted would be best thought of as a younger "twin" who went by the name of Jeremy David or JD and that Dan's genetic material from NuGenesis had been used to conceive another young man named Ethan. These two had been with their father – also working at odd jobs, mostly in the field of computers. They now had gone even deeper into hiding together to evade the Centre, in case news of Dan's death caught the eye of someone and resulted in sweepers descending on the little town where they'd been staying. I worried about my daughter too, but Jarod assured me that Emily's job at the Philadelphia newspaper had become quite high-profile in recent months, in a perverse way making her far less vulnerable to Centre machinations. As for Kyle, he was dead too – and my grief that terrible, unforgettable night was almost unbearable.

I had drifted for the next six months, never staying more than three weeks in any one place until the small fortune Jarod had given me was beginning to seriously dwindle. In that time, I'd worked as a waitress, a hotel maid, a grocery store checkout, among other things – all low-profile jobs that would tend not to garner attention. That changed – in order to make ends meet, I had to choose employment prospects that were a little more in keeping with my education and training. For the next three years, Jarod had called from time to time on a very rare basis– twice to warn me of the Centre somehow managing to get a lead on my current location. Now, realizing that I'd been in one place for a whole three months, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to crawl. How much longer would I be safe here? When was the last time Jarod had called? I couldn't remember…

"We'll see," Clive responded gamely, shattering my quick reverie. "I can be a very persuasive and patient man." I merely let my eyebrows raise in skepticism as a response and turned gratefully to the first phone call of the day with my own worries at the front of my mind. Three months in one place was too long. It was time for me to move on – whether Jarod called with another warning or not. He had my cell phone number – he could always find me now, if he wanted to. My God, though – what if I'd finally given the Centre enough time to track me down, and Jarod didn't know about it.

I'd been here too long. I knew better.

I dealt with the mother on the phone wanting to get copies of her child's transcript and then hung up to find that Clive hadn't retreated to his office yet. "Peg – are you OK?" he asked with what looked to be genuine concern on his face. "You've gone pale."

"I'm fine," I lied to him again, waving my hand dismissively in hopes of chasing him into his office and finally to work. "I'm just courting a headache, that's all."

He finally walked away as I'd hoped, with much the same expression on his face that I could remember Dan sometimes giving me during those rare weekends we would meet while trying to stay below the Centre's tracking efforts. Whatever I'd said, Clive, like Dan in similar situations, hadn't believed me but was going to let me have the last word nonetheless to avoid confrontation. I deliberately tried not to think of how easily and often I found myself lying to the handsome principal of Oakridge Elementary School now – especially since he'd started indicating his interest in me.

I knew that Clive was a good man – a widower himself that had every spinster and divorcee in town drooling and primping. Had it been another time, another world, I might have been convinced to trust him with my secret. It had been a very long time since I'd been able to have a serious discussion of my situation with someone my age who might be able to understand. Suddenly I missed Dan – even though we'd been living apart for more than twenty-eight years now and our relationship was defined by quick and poignant weekends in odd and secluded spots from time to time in the last two years since we'd reconnected, I missed him dreadfully for a sharp and agonizing moment. It wasn't fair that we had never been able to put our lives back together in a more normal manner before death had stolen him from me.

But then, I was getting used to life being completely and mercilessly unfair.

oOoOo

"Margaret Charles?"

After a quiet day with few emergencies, disciplinary issues or special events, I almost welcomed the sound of Jarod's voice in my ear – even though his mode of address left me confused as I swiveled in my chair to look up at him. But rather than being in what I'd come to think of as his customary black leather attire, he was wearing the uniform of a local police officer. Only his eyes showed that he knew me – they were wide and anxious and flicking up to the closed door to Clive's office nervously. _Pretend along with me_, they told me silently.

"Yes?" I answered in my most officious and neutral tone.

"You need to come with me, ma'am," Jarod continued, his policeman's act quite convincing. "There are some questions we need to have you answer."

"Now?!" My surprise and consternation were real now. "I can't just leave…"

Jarod's voice was implacable – something must be seriously wrong for him to pull this. "I can always arrest you, ma'am…" he answered in a quiet and calm voice that belied the urgency in his gaze.

I gathered my purse from my desk drawer hurriedly. "Let me call my principal…"

"You don't have time for that…" Finally Jarod was starting to sound like himself – and as if he was on the verge of panic. "You need to come with me NOW."

I grabbed a blank piece of paper and scrawled "Sorry" on it, then left it in the middle of my blotter as I rose, grabbed my winter coat and followed my son out the front door of the school and down to where a squad car waited. As I climbed in, I could see Clive's face in his office window – a study in disbelief and alarm – but his mad dash to try to catch us before the car moved away from the curb was too slow and too late. We left him standing at the curb, one hand at his hip, the other at his ear as he obviously was calling the police department to demand an explanation.

I wanted one too.

"Jarod…"

"I'm about fifteen minutes ahead of the Centre, Mom," Jarod told me without taking his eyes from the road. "We have about five minutes more than that for me to ditch this car and disguise and get you out of here."

"How…"

"Did you HAVE to use your real name on the employment application?" His voice was filled with frustration and dismay.

I sighed. "I figured they'd assume I'd always be using an alias now – and so not be looking for a Margaret Charles." I could see now, in retrospect, how foolish such an assumption on MY part had been. "I didn't think…"

"This was just too close. You're going to have to go into hiding for a while – for real this time," he told me in a firm tone. "No employment, no leaving the safe house…"

"No! I refuse to live like a prisoner," I fired back. "I'll have you know that for the last thirty-some years, I've done quite well at avoiding…"

"Yeah, but they're looking harder for you now," he informed me, already starting to unzip the uniform jacket with one hand while driving with the other. "Your face is all over the Internet – with a sizeable reward for tips on your location. The Centre isn't being coy anymore – they want you because they know that they can get to me THROUGH you."

"I think they've known that ever since you escaped, honey," I reminded him, leaning forward to put a hand on his shoulder. "I do appreciate what you did, though – pulling me out of that office before…"

His hand came up and quickly covered mine, then it dropped away again and began shrugging the jacket from his body. "Yes, but Raines is getting desperate now. Ever since we… missed connections at Scotland three years ago, I've stayed below their radar – not leaving any clues for them to follow or much contact with any of them at all anymore. I'm getting tired of running…"

"I am too." I hadn't realized how tired I was getting of never being able to completely relax – of never being able to make good friends and know myself safe in anonymity. "Maybe that's part of the reason I used my real name this time – I was hoping…"

Jarod nodded, and he sounded more understanding at last. "I know, Mom. I wish we all could just fade into the woodwork and then reform as a family and not have to pretend to be someone else – but the Centre has eyes everywhere. And lately, those eyes are looking for you and Dad as hard as – if not harder - than they're looking for me."

I sighed and leaned back against the cushion, trying to ignore the odd smells that wafted into my nostrils or think about what could have happened in this back seat to leave them behind. "So now what?"

"We're going to have to find you a deep hole – somewhere the Centre would never dream of looking for you…" his voice trailed off as he finished shrugging off the shirt and began to think. I glanced at his face in the rearview mirror and got a shiver of apprehension. His face was hard and calculating. "I have to make a call," he said suddenly.

"We have to ditch the car and uniform, you said," I frowned.

He gave a quick nod. "We'll do that first – but then I'll have to make a call the moment I know that we're in the clear for the time being."

"Who are you going to call?" I asked curiously.

Jarod's dark eyes met mine in the rearview mirror at last. "Someone I hope I can trust," was all he would say.

oOoOo

Ditching the police ruse was easier than I'd thought it would be. Jarod very quietly drove the sedan to the side of the road in a secluded spot just outside of town and then opened the door for me to get out. From a briefcase he pulled out of the car, he took a rag and a bottle of cleaner and wiped down the interior and exterior of the vehicle until he was certain neither of us had left any fingerprints or other clues to our identity behind. The uniform clothing he'd been wearing – including the heavy gun belt and weapon that looked altogether too real – he rolled up and threw into a duffel bag that he pulled from the trunk of the car. He then finished up by wiping down the key he'd used in the ignition and the trunk lock and tossed it into the trunk as well before slamming the trunk down with his hand still wrapped in the rag.

We only walked a few hundred paces down the pavement – Jarod told me to not step in any of the soft snow on the shoulder to give away our direction. Then he was pulling another set of keys from his trousers and opening the back end of a nondescript silver mini SUV that had been parked on the side of the road, just as the police car was. "We'll have to get you a wardrobe on the fly," he told me regretfully as he tossed both the duffel bag and briefcase into the back and then unlocked the car so we could both climb in through the driver's door. "I don't think it would be wise to go back to your apartment and get your stuff before the Centre gets to it."

I nodded at him, wishing it were otherwise. I'd managed to collect a rather nice set of clothing that was as comfortable as it was practical – but this wasn't the first time I'd managed to elude the Centre with virtually nothing but the clothes on my back. Any photographs with real sentimental value were in my wallet, NEVER to be left behind anywhere. "It's OK," I told him as I settled into the passenger seat next to him. "There's nothing that would give them any information they don't already know."

We drove for the next hour in silence, each of us wrapped up in thoughts and plans and what-if's, until Jarod finally pulled over at a rest stop. "Here," he said, handing me three twenties from what looked like a very substantial roll of money. "Get us some food and drink to keep us going for a fairly long trip while I make that call I was talking about."

"Are you going to tell me who?" I asked, tucking the money into my blouse pocket before reaching for the door handle.

"As soon as I'm sure of our plans," he replied cryptically and then turned one of his prize-winning smiles on me. "Trust me, Mom."

"I do, honey," I answered him with a sudden feeling in my gut that reminded me – and not for the first time – that this man who was my son was still virtually a stranger to me. His means and agendas were completely unknown to me. All I had to go on were memories of a loving five-year-old and the fact that despite the decades of separation, he apparently felt a deep responsibility for my welfare and was willing to go to great lengths on my behalf – all gained in conversations and meetings so brief and rare that I could count them on two hands with fingers left over. Jarod loved his mother – at least, I was fairly certain he did – and it was in that I could trust. Beyond that, however…

I climbed from the car and walked into the little convenience store that doubled as a truck stop and gas station and put the sixty dollars he'd given me to good use. I bought bottled water and caffeinated drinks, prepackaged cheese and cracker snacks, plastic utensils, several cup of soups, hand wipes, chips, cookies, and finally a thermos that – with a little feminine persuasion aimed at the clerk – I then filled with hot water from the coffee dispenser to use with the soups.

Jarod was just finishing putting gas into the SUV, and by the time I had the haul from the store stowed between the driver's and passenger's seats, he'd paid for his gas and was climbing behind the wheel again. "Are you sure you don't want me to take a turn driving?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he answered absently. "We need to get on the toll road and head south now."

"South?" South of us was Maryland – and Delaware beyond that. My stomach twisted into a knot at the mere idea. "Where are we going?"

"I told you," he sighed, "the last place the Centre would ever dream of looking for you."

"Jarod." I put out my hand and covered his at the ignition, preventing him from turning on the engine. "I think it's time you told me what your plans are."

He at least had the courtesy of looking chagrined. "I'd really rather not – not yet, anyway. I'd rather we not fight for the next few hours. I see you so seldom as it is…"

"Where are we going?" I asked again – this time in my best mother's no-nonsense tone.

"A place just outside Blue Cove," he replied very softly, not looking at me at all. "I spent most of the time driving to pick you up doing the SIM of your going there, just to make sure – and I was right. The best place for you to hide right now is right under the Centre's nose."

"My God, Jarod! Are you mad?" I couldn't believe it!

"Mom…" He gave a deep sigh and his shoulders drooped. "I told you – they've turned up the intensity of the search for you and the others. They have their computers and their consultants scouring the Internet and databases looking for the least hint of your whereabouts. How they managed to miss you working under your own name for as long as they did…"

"That doesn't mean that I'm safest in their back pockets!" I snapped. "I could leave the country…"

"And if you did, I couldn't get to you fast enough to protect you if their allies – and they do have them over there – spot you and turn you in for the reward!" he barked back at me and then took a deep breath to try to calm himself. "But one thing I have learned about the Centre is that while they may be lethally efficient, they tend to be criminally myopic." Finally he faced me, and his face was relaxed and almost jovial. "Did I ever tell you that my favorite place to rest between Pretends that have them spending their frequent flier miles is a seaside cottage about four miles outside the Centre perimeter? I've been coming and going from Blue Cove for almost eight years now – staying in that little cottage often for weeks at a time – and they still haven't got a clue."

I gaped – half in astonishment, and half in awe. "Jarod!"

"I got it from a relative of a friend I helped out, way back when I first escaped. She was looking to sell – I was looking for a place I could call my own where I wouldn't' call attention to myself." His smile widened. "You'll love it, Mom – it's far from the roads and far enough from the fence around the Centre that you can almost forget it's so close. You'll have your own private beach…"

"You think I'm going to be happy stuck in a countryside cottage that's half-buried in a snowdrift right now and close enough to the Centre that if they listen carefully, they'll hear me sneeze?" I gaped at him. "And what about supplies? I can't go into town – your father and I had good friends in Blue Cove, I'd be recognized…"

Jarod reached out and patted my hand. "Trust me, Mom."

"I'm trying to, Jarod – it's just…" I stammered into silence. How was I supposed to tell my first-born son of the sense of foreboding I got just crossing the Delaware state line, much less taking up residence on the Centre's front porch? "Where will you be?"

Uh-oh – he couldn't look me in the eye anymore. "I don't dare stay in the area," he said with a touch of real remorse. "I have a project that I'm going to start in a few days – I'll be just a couple of hours away. And if there's anything that comes up, my friend knows a couple of other places to take you that will be just as good and will take you there – and then let me know."

"You must trust this friend greatly to not be tempted to blab to the Centre," I observed, making my skepticism plain.

"Guilt can be a wonderful motivator, when used properly," Jarod quipped and then fell silent again, leaving me to ponder his remarks for the next few hours.

We made a very late afternoon stop in Baltimore at a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of town, where Jarod gave me more money and sent me in to replenish my wardrobe. It didn't take me long to purchase a nightgown, bathrobe, slippers, underwear, comfortable running shoes, several pairs of warm trousers, sweaters and blouses, a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and a hairbrush – all in all not so very different from what I'd left behind in my little apartment – and then find a suitcase to hold it all, as well as sheets, pillows, pillowcases and several blankets. When I returned to the car, he helped me remove tags and fold the garments into the suitcase – which was then deposited in the back with his duffel bag and the bags of bed linen before we once more found the turnpike.

As the darkness fell, I leaned my seat back and tried to nap – but my mind was running too fast to allow me to rest well. I couldn't help thinking about Clive and the mess I'd probably left him in by bolting out of the school like I did – although I pacified myself with the thought that he was going to have been left with a mess one way or the other, so better it be the one in which I retained my freedom than the one in which the Centre hauled me away. I once more allowed myself to think of Dan – to regret the fact it wasn't him sitting in the driver's seat taking me to safety rather than Jarod. Then I felt guilty about wishing the son to be the father – I'd seen neither often enough in my life to be choosy.

I was surprised when a gentle hand nudged at my shoulder. I must have fallen asleep after all. "We're almost there, Mom," Jarod announced – and I sat up and looked around to see very familiar surroundings. Too familiar – we were cruising calmly past the front gates to the Centre itself. I could see the Tower in the distance, the lights on the white stonework making the place seem even more oppressive and threatening than usual. "It's OK," Jarod soothed, patting my shoulder again as if he could sense my alarm, "they have no idea how close we are. That's the beauty of this."

It was in that moment that I decided that I had only two options – to trust in Jarod's abilities blindly, banking on the fact that the Centre wouldn't want him so badly if his SIMs hadn't proven useful over and over again in the past, or jump from the car and take my chances in the dark by myself – once more reduced to nothing but the clothes on my back. I looked at his face, reflected in the dim light from the SUV's controls, and could see that he wasn't stressed at all – and decided that the time had come to put myself in my son's hands. It was hard to relinquish control like that – but I had no choice.

"How much further?" I asked instead, straightening the seat and trying to get my bearings in a countryside I hadn't visited for over thirty years that was blanketed in snow that hid many of the smaller landmarks I might have recognized otherwise.

"We're almost there," he replied, slowing the SUV down after another mile or so had gone past and then turning onto a narrow lane. Overhung with barren branches of dormant trees, I could see how in the fullness of summer, this could be an ideal setting for a hide-out. The lane wound slowly around until Jarod once more turned off into what was nothing more than a set of indentations – ruts that the late winter's snowfall had nearly obliterated. I wondered that he'd even known where to look.

"They'll see the tracks," I worried at him.

"Mom," Jarod sighed indulgently at me, "they don't get out this way – they've no reason to. Stop worrying."

The cottage itself only gradually became visible through the tangle of barren trees and bushes in the early evening gloom – a two-storied structure with weathered white clapboard siding that nearly blended with the snow on the ground to make an eerie winter scene in the moonlight. The windows were black in the darkness, empty of any life. The SUV pulled to a halt in front of a small shed that must serve as a garage that stood just a few paces from the narrow stairs and screened in back entry to the cottage.

We both pulled on our winter coats before leaving the SUV – the branches of the bushes were moving in the force of a healthy and chilling wind blowing in from the ocean. Jarod handed me his keys with one in particular selected – and then went around to the back of the SUV where the trunk door was already open while I hurried up the wooden steps to the back porch with my purse and the rest of our travel supplies. I stamped my feet to get rid of the snow from my trousers in the screened-in entryway that was half-filled by a long chest freezer and then applied the key to the lock.

It wasn't exactly warm in the house as I stepped through the door, my right hand reaching in and around the corner for the light switch, but the lack of wind was a relief in itself. The kitchen was revealed to be a relatively old-fashioned one, with white enameled cabinets and linoleum on the floor and appliances that looked like they'd come out of a 50's movie set. A Formica table with aluminum accents and legs sat off to one side and against a wall, with three matching aluminum and vinyl chairs neatly tucked into their places. On the table sat a toaster oven and the traditional napkins and salt and pepper shakers.

I put the plastic sack with the remains of chips, cookies, cheese and crackers, utensils and cups of soup on the table and shivered as Jarod came through the door fully loaded with luggage and Wal-Mart bags amidst a blast of cold night breeze. "Your friend didn't warm the place up any for you," I commented wryly.

"He hasn't been here," Jarod replied. "I'll light the furnace in the morning – and we can make do with the little electric heaters in the bedrooms until then."

I opened the refrigerator and found it empty – as I suspected. "He's coming with groceries for us, I hope…"

"No – I'll drive back into Dover for them after we both get a good night's rest and you make me a shopping list. For tonite, we snack if we get hungry and finish off what you bought for us earlier." He handed me my suitcase and one of the bags of bedclothes. "C'mon – let me show you the rest of the place. I'm thinking we both need to sleep ourselves out – get rid of the nerves from your close call."

The one bathroom to the place was near the back – just off the kitchen. The living room surprised me by having a fireplace – but, "if we use the furnace, and keep the lights to a minimum at night, it will be hard for anyone to suspect that there's anyone here," was his response to my query about a supply of firewood. The floors were polished hardwood – although the living room furniture was arranged on what looked like a Persian rug in fairly good condition. A thin film of dust covered almost every horizontal surface – evidently Jarod hadn't been in residence here for a while, or else hadn't cleaned well the last time he'd landed here.

It would give me something to do for the first day or so at least, I thought. It had been a while since I'd had a whole house to clean – the work would do both me and my mental state good. There was a rather modern entertainment center, with television, DVD player and expensive-looking stereo set in a far corner – and a computer desk complete with computer and monitor in an opposite corner. The couch and chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in front of the hearth, with a heavy oaken coffee table as centerpiece for them all. The other wall was lined with books – and I knew that at least some of my time once Jarod was gone would go into seeing just what kind of library my son would take the time to collect for himself.

"Did you buy this place furnished?" I asked as I took the first step to following him up a very narrow flight of stairs that turned ninety degrees to the left from a landing three steps up and headed into the darkness above.

"My friend's aunt died and left it to her – and she just wanted to get rid it. She was glad when I told her I'd take it as is," Jarod replied over his shoulder, his left hand seeking and then finding the light switch to the upstairs hall. A doorway faced down the stairs, but he made no move to enter. "I couldn't see any benefit in replacing stuff that worked, although I've added a few things here and there…"

The master bedroom, across the hallway and a few steps down from the door I'd seen coming up the stairs, was nearly as long as the cottage was wide – with two old-fashioned casement windows that looked out over the roof of a broad front porch and in the direction of the ocean. There was a small chest of drawers opposite the queen-sized bed – and a vanity with a huge round mirror dominated the space between the windows. I opened a narrow door and found the room had a walk-in closet that was much bigger than I'd suspected. "Nice," I nodded as Jarod pulled the plastic sheet from the bed and deposited my suitcase in the middle of it. "A little dusting, and this will be just fine.

"There's a small space heater here," Jarod pointed out the little box in a corner near the chest of drawers as he finished folding the plastic from the bed. "It should help take some of the chill from the room for the time being."

"And you? Where are you going to sleep?" I asked, too awake now to really want to settle down yet.

"My room's at the end of the hallway," he replied.

"What's behind that door at the top of the stairs?" I wanted to know.

"Storage," he answered, "closet space for unseasonable clothing, Christmas decorations and all sorts of stuff." He flashed me a wistful smile. "I've had all kinds of fun going through all the boxes in there over the years – imagining what would have needed to happen for the stuff to have ended up there." His smile faded slightly. "It gave me the feeling that even though the memories that belonged with the stuff in the boxes didn't belong to my family – to me – that I was protecting family memorabilia." He shook himself, almost as if he were embarrassed by the emotional neediness such a confession exposed. "God, I must be more tired than I thought! This is my room," he added, leading me down the hall.

I followed him into the second bedroom and found it furnished very much as my room had been – although the size was considerably less. It too had a walk-in closet and a small space heater tucked into an inconspicuous corner. He dropped his duffel bag in the middle of the bed after pulling off the plastic sheet again, but carried his laptop case – which must have been in the back of the SUV all along – to the top of the chest of drawers. Again he folded the plastic sheeting expertly and dropped it on top of the chest of drawers next to the black canvas laptop case.

"Get some sleep, Mom," he urged me gently, stepping close and dropping a kiss on my forehead. "We'll talk more in the morning."

I smiled at him and let him shoo me out of his room after we divided up the bed linens – although I had my doubts about our talk in the morning. If we couldn't find anything to chat about to occupy the hours we'd been driving to get here, I wasn't sure we had anything to fill the time any better with the sun up other than questions and answers that could cause arguments. I made up my bed, turned on the little heater, changed quickly into my nightgown in the cold and climbed into bed. Surprisingly, I think I was asleep only two moments after my head hit the pillow.

oOoOo

I'd been tired, and I was surprised that I was able to rest as well as I did in a strange bed with linens that still had the manufacturer's sizing in them. The little space heater had done its job well – my bedroom may not have been toasty warm when I got up, but from the looks of the fresh snowfall from my window, it would have been downright freezing otherwise. I had chosen a warm robe and slippers at the store – and I was glad for them as I walked down a hallway to the stairs that was easily as frozen as my bedroom would have been.

I thought I was the first to arise, but I was mistaken. Halfway down the stairs, my nose could smell the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. "You're up early," I commented from the bathroom door in the direction of my son's back as he stood at the stove doing something I couldn't see but could smell behind the coffee scent.

"I thought we both could do with some warm food this morning," Jarod replied, turning his head to give me a smile that reminded me so much of Dan's smile it hurt. "Hurry up," he urged with a nudge of his nose toward the bathroom, "this should be just about ready when you get out."

I hurried, and wasn't surprised that by the time I exited the bathroom, I could smell cinnamon and apples. On the counter was a box of instant flavored oatmeal – which was better than making a breakfast out of the left-over chips and other snacks from the trip. "At least you know the advantages to a good breakfast," I smiled at him as I put a hand on his shoulder from behind.

He looked back and over his shoulder at me with a wide smile. "The advantage lies entirely with the breakfast being edible and tasty as well as nutritious," he corrected me as he twisted to bend and drop a kiss on my cheek. "There are mugs next to the stove for coffee – help yourself."

I poured myself some of the wonderful-smelling brew from the old fashioned percolator on the stove and carried it back to the kitchen table. "So," I began as I sat down in a chair from which I could continue to watch what he was doing, "are you feeling rested this morning?"

Jarod had two bowls of steaming oatmeal in his hands as he turned away from the stove, and he set one of them in front of me. "Sorry there's no milk yet. We'll have to put that on your shopping list for this afternoon." He turned back to take the pot in which he'd cooked our breakfast into the sink and fill it with cold water and then returned to the table with a full cup of coffee. "Yeah, though – to answer your question, I'm feeling a lot better now that I know we're safe for the time being."

I waited until he'd sat down and sipped long at his coffee. "Talk to me, Jarod," I insisted after tasting the oatmeal and nodding my approval of his efforts. "Just how long do you think I'm going to have to stay stuck here?"

"Mom…"

"Look," I told him, leaning toward him and putting my hand on his arm, "don't think I'm not grateful for your timely help staying out of the Centre's clutches. But I'm not accustomed to staying in one place for very long at all, much less being cooped up in a single building all alone out in the middle of blessed nowhere for days and weeks on end. Throw me a bone here!"

"OK…" he sighed, very obviously not happy about my not wanting to just do as he wished without question. "I figure that it will take about three weeks for your trail to grow completely cold. After that, it might take another week or so to find a good place for you to hide in the open WITHOUT giving away your identity in the bargain. So, best guess-timate, you'll be here about a month."

I nodded, eating my oatmeal placidly and working to mentally digest his plans for me. "And what will you be doing – and where will you be doing it – while I'm stuck here?"

Jarod looked at me sharply. "I'll be in Baltimore," he told me a little reluctantly. "I think I should be able to slip down once a week to shop for you in Dover and then visit for a day or so on weekends…" He took several mouthsful of oatmeal in succession, unnerved, I think, by my continued silence. "There's a situation going on there, Mom, that I have to take care of…"

"Will you be there the whole time I'm here?"

He nodded as he sipped at his coffee. "I think so. There's a lot of foundation-laying and situation-building that I'll have to do before anything meaningful can happen."

"Will it be dangerous?"

"Mom…"

I didn't let his look of frustration put me off. "It's a simple question, Jarod…"

"I've done this for the better part of the last ten years, Mom – I can take care of myself," he answered instead and stuffed a spoon laden with oatmeal into his mouth unhappily.

"You don't believe ME when I say I can take care of myself – so I don't think I'm out of line in not exactly believing it from you either," I shot back angrily. "For your information, I've been staying two steps ahead of the Centre for a helluva lot longer than you have, Mr. Russell – just because I goof now and again doesn't mean I can't continue to do so. Tell me YOU haven't ended up too damned close to them from time to time when you miscalculate…" I waited, but a slow-rising flush beginning at his collar told me I'd nailed him. "Enough said then. Answer the question – will it be dangerous?"

When he looked up at me, his dark eyes were snapping. "Yes, Mother, it will be dangerous to a certain extent. People who are doing bad things to other people generally aren't happy to have their little schemes disrupted."

I lifted my coffee, not letting my hand shake, and nodded at him. Who was I kidding? I had very little maternal weight to throw around this stranger-son of mine to bring him to my point of view – and pushing him too much NOW might not be a wise move. "Thank you for your honesty," I told him calmly and sipped at my coffee, barely tasting it. "And please pardon the Twenty Questions, but…" I steeled myself for another confrontation, "…in case something unexpected happens, and you are out of the picture for whatever reason, how will I know when to move on – and just who were you talking to that you think you can trust with my whereabouts?"

Jarod sighed and dropped the spoon in his bowl of oatmeal before reaching for his coffee again. "I told you, three weeks will give us enough time to make sure whatever trail you might have left behind for the Centre has grown cold and useless – another week after that and it should be safe for you to move on, with or without my help. As to the call…" He sipped for a long moment at his mug. "Sydney's the only one I can trust not to turn you in to the Centre at the drop of a hat – and he's also capable of helping you move to a different safe house should the need arise."

"Sydney!" No wonder Jarod had made the crack about guilt being a good motivator earlier! Of all the names I'd expected him to toss at me, the LAST one I'd expected was that of the man who had held him prisoner and made him do terrible, horrific things for years on end.

Jarod was nodding. "He knows where you are, and what to do if you should happen to have to call him one day." His eyes flicked up to meet mine and then dropped their gaze back into the oatmeal bowl. "His phone number is underneath the telephone – over there." His finger indicated the old-fashioned slim-line telephone on the end of the kitchen counter. "If I don't come every Saturday afternoon – or if I call to tell you that I can't make it – call Sydney. He'll help you get groceries – and, if necessary, get you to someplace safe if you need to move."

"And you think I can trust this man?" I was still incredulous. "Jarod, he kept you locked away from the world for thirty years…"

"Sydney has a lot to answer for, I agree," Jarod nodded at me, "but he's a victim too…" He seemed to debate explaining himself, but then apparently decided against it. "Since my escape, he's found ways to help me – small but relatively important and effective ways to keep me free. There is one other whom I COULD tell, but I don't think he's in any position to be of help since he has a teenaged daughter's welfare to think of. For what it's worth, I trust Sydney about as much as I trust anybody in this world..." his eyes again flicked briefly at mine, "…including you."

I wasn't exactly certain whether I should feel insulted that Jarod didn't trust me anymore than he trusted his former jailer – or encouraged that he was entrusting my safety to the one person he trusted as much as he trusted me. Either way, I knew that I now had asked all the hard questions and, for better or worse, gotten as many of the answers as were going to be forthcoming. "This shopping list you want me to put together," I threw out, knowing it to be a far safer subject than any of the others so far that morning, "how far in advance do you want to buy?"

"At least a week," he answered, looking almost as relieved as I felt. "There's a box freezer on the back porch, in case you didn't notice, that you can keep any cuts of meat. I don't know how much REAL cooking you want to do just for yourself…"

I smiled at him and reached for my spoon again. "I've been living off of TV dinners and pre-packaged meals for months now – working at that school office was fun, but tiring. I think I'd like to have to think through a menu and plan for a week's worth of groceries again." I found myself chuckling at the very idea even as I lifted a spoonful of rapidly cooling breakfast. "Imagine – going back to something resembling a "normal" lifestyle…"

"Yeah," Jarod chuckled too, with just a hint of bitterness. "Who'd ever think how unnatural "normal" is for us, huh?"


	2. Stuck

Chapter 2 – Stuck

I brushed my hair back out of my face, leaned on the handle of the old cotton-cord mop that I'd been wielding for the last half hour, and looked with no small amount of satisfaction on the kitchen floor – the whole kitchen, for that matter. The counters were free of dust, the glass canister set in the corner sparkled, and the stove now looked closer to what it must have when it was fresh from the showroom.

Not bad for two hours' concentrated labor – two hours being the time that Jarod had been gone to Dover to get me the groceries I had listed for him. Inasmuch as, to me, the kitchen was the heart of a home, it had been important for me to put it right straight away. I leaned the mop in the bucket against the end of the counter and drew myself a tall glass of tap water to drink, then sat down at my table to enjoy it. I'd take a break for a bit, and then head for the bathroom. It hadn't looked bad to me this morning, when I was fresh out of bed and barely awake; but like the rest of the house, it had seen too many weeks and months go by with no attention whatsoever.

I glanced up and out of the window over the sink and frowned. It was snowing again – at this rate, my "safe" house would be buried and virtually invisible from the road. The furnace, however, was in good shape – the house was now toasty-warm and quite cozy. I suppose for a hidey-hole, it wasn't half bad. It would be the isolation that would bother me more than anything else. The deeper the snow got, the more signs of habitation would be evident if or when someone needed to come out. Which meant…

This was ridiculous. Jarod knew what he was doing – I had to remind myself of this or else I'd pack my little bag and find SOME way to slip away from this nest out in the middle of frozen nowhere and get to where there was at least a little humanity around me. I hated being alone – it had been the necessary element of my life for all too long, and I'd had just about enough of it. Even when I was in a huge city, I was alone – alone and constantly watching over my shoulder. Now, in this cabin nestled right into the back pocket of the very same unwitting monsters that had dogged my every step "out there", I was alone in more ways than just the psychological one.

Dan was dead – there would never, ever be a hope of one day putting a fractured family back together. Emily was safe in a high-profile job in Philadelphia that protected only her. Kyle was dead too – that simple thought was incredibly painful. Jarod had told me that his brother had died saving him – and that his heart still beat in the chest of a fine young sheriff's son somewhere – but that did little to comfort me. I'd barely had a chance to hold my infant son before he'd been stolen from his crib too – by a Centre hoping to score another Pretender. The day Kyle had been stolen was the day that Dan and I began our life on the run. We were together long enough to have Emily – and then discover to our dismay that we could no longer safely travel together or raise our daughter within a complete family unit. I'd been living alone ever since – first as a single mother with a little girl to care for, and only later as a woman alone when Emily had gotten her job and started to live her own life. By then, I'd lost track of Dan completely by nearly two decades.

I didn't know the other two boys – the ones who should never have been. I didn't resent them for existing, but I deeply resented the need that kept us separated. They were pieces of Dan that were still being denied me after a lifetime being denied Dan completely. Jarod told me both of them had been held by the Centre in one way or another – that they'd each been victimized, tortured, twisted. From what little he did say, I could only imagine the life that had been Kyle's before it had been cut short – Jarod would tell me only very little about the few hours he'd been with his little brother. He did tell me, though, that in some ways, each of the other boys was worse off than he had ever been.

Jarod said that it was Sydney that had made the difference in HIS life – that without Sydney as a role model and ethical barometer, he would have been a monster too, with all his heart and soul beaten, tortured and SIMmed out of him. Sydney – just the mention of that man's name was enough to rile me. He was the man who had had the gift of my son's youth and had overseen it be stolen bit by bit and squandered to serve the bottom line of the Centre. I didn't dare contemplate the kind of ethics Jarod might have learned from a man who had been a willing part of the evil that was the Centre – that kind of thinking only made me wonder whether it was a good idea to trust my son too far. And still… Damn it! Jarod should have known how I would feel knowing that my fate while in this snowbound cage at the gates of Hell itself lay in the hands of the usurper of my son's life.

Enough! Enough musing – and enough railing at whatever force had so turned my plans for a simple, normal life as wife and mother inside-out, up-side down and backwards. I had a bathroom to clean before Jarod got back.

I'd decided somewhere between polishing the glass canisters and mopping the kitchen floor to ask my son for my own computer and some way of contacting the world outside my snow drifts in the days and weeks I'd be stuck here. As I put my used water glass in the sink, I reminded myself to speak to Jarod about it when he came home. It was Saturday – hopefully Jarod could go back to Dover to get me what I wanted before he had to leave for Baltimore tomorrow. I'd used the Internet in my job at the school – and I was no slouch at it either.

The cleaning supplies under the sink in the bathroom were old, but they sufficed – and I was just finishing up mopping the small area behind the toilet when I hear the sound of a vehicle engine close by. Despite myself, I found myself vacillating between an urge to stand at the side of the kitchen door with the mop ready to take on whoever came through the door and an equally strong urge to make a bee-line upstairs and into that storage room to find a small, dark corner to hide in. Before I could do more than position myself with my back to the wall next to the back door, I heard Jarod sing out, "Open the door, Mom – it's food."

I sagged against the wall in real relief – when had I become desperately fearful? It took a long moment for me to gather my wits, lean the mop against the wall and open the door to a very overburdened son, who nearly filled the kitchen table with brown paper grocery sacks. He rushed over and then dropped them a little less than gently on the Formica than was really safe. "You OK?" I heard him ask, and then looked up at him. I suppose I must have been the color of the snow outside.

"I heard the car and panicked, I guess," I said casually, trying to brush off my pallor. "I guess yesterday upset me more than I thought it did." He continued to look at me, his gaze intense and concerned. "I was cleaning the bathroom – and I wasn't expecting to hear you arrive," I tried to explain again, my hands flopping in a useless way. "I couldn't help it. I thought it was…"

"It WAS a close call yesterday," he commented quietly, his acknowledgement of the validity of my feelings almost as comforting as a hug. "And I know you're not happy being this close to them here."

"Is there more in the car?" I asked him, pushing through the potential for a full-blown panic attack to gesture at the sacks of groceries.

"Yeah – groceries and other stuff." He visibly pushed past his concern to answer at me. "While I was in town, I thought of a few more things you might need that we hadn't discussed."

"I'll unpack and put things away then," I told him, turning to the table and peeking in the first bag I came too. "You go get the rest of it."

A gentle hand landed on my shoulder. "You sure you're OK, Mom?"

I turned and smiled at him. "I am now," I told him in as encouraging voice as I could manage. "Really."

"I think we'll have to discuss a way to let you know that it's me driving up to the house next time, so you don't freak out again."

"Get the stuff from the car, Jarod," I directed him. "I'll make us both some hot chocolate after its all put away – and THEN we can talk about that."

The hand on my shoulder tightened briefly, and then Jarod was out the door again, leaving me to disembowel the paper bags into the pantry shelves and sort the soups from the sauces and broths and spices and juice. I swear he must have bought me every last fresh vegetable available, because my refrigerator crisper was soon stuffed to the max with lettuce, carrots, green onions, mushrooms, bell pepper and cabbage. By the time all the grocery sacks were in and stowed, I had my canisters filled with new flour and sugar, several meat roasts and several more sacks of frozen vegetables nesting in that cabinet freezer on the porch, a pot roast in the fridge waiting for a good time to start baking for supper tonight, and onions and potatoes on the floor of the pantry cabinet in the dark, where they'd stay as fresh as possible for the longest.

Unbelievably, Jarod must have read my mind while in Dover. After he'd hauled all the groceries in from the car and helped me put them away, he went back out one more time while I started the water boiling for hot chocolate. When he came back in, he was carrying several boxes that opened to reveal a brand-new laptop, portable printer and a carrying case capable of handling both. My mouth gaped – and all he said when he saw my face was, "I told you, I thought of a few more things…"

"I had just thought of something like that while I was cleaning…" I began, shaking my head in disbelief as I tore open one of the hot chocolate packets and dumped the powder into a mug.

Jarod snickered as he carefully unpacked the laptop and put it on the kitchen table. "Like minds, Mom. I was thinking that you're going to be feeling pretty isolated – and having the Internet might help with that. I've set up a remote IP server for just us, so we can email back and forth without too much worry – and I can give you Emily's and Ethan's and JD's email addresses too."

"And Sydney's?" I asked – curious as to just how close he was going to want me to come to his old life.

As it was, my question did manage to surprise him. "I suppose I could," he answered slowly at last, "although I have to warn you - Sydney isn't much of a fan of technology. He uses the computer at the Centre only because the Centre requires his reports be filed electronically now. Frankly, he prefers a simple phone call to the sterility of email."

Well, that answered THAT, because I could live with the relative anonymity of email and words on a computer screen much better than actually hearing the sound of the man's voice in my ear.

Then: "I didn't think you were all that happy with having Sydney know you were here in the first place. I didn't think you'd want to contact him except in case of emergency – if even then."

Oh! Jarod HAD been paying attention after all this morning when I reacted to his announcing the identity of his backup for me in case of trouble. "I'm not – I didn't... I just wondered…" I attempted to explain lamely as I stirred the hot water into the first mug. I didn't understand my own question – why on earth would I want even the option of contact with THAT man voluntarily anyway? I hated him – I begrudged him his apparent continued closeness to Jarod despite everything that he'd done or allowed to happen…

Jarod was quiet for long enough that I finally felt the need to glance over at him at the table. He was working at the laptop – doing whatever start-up tasks were needed to make it operational. He glanced up into my face as I put his mug of hot chocolate down next to his left hand and then sat down next to him with my own in front of me. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah." I'd had a chance to get myself back on an even keel again. I no longer felt as if my heart were ready to bust loose of my chest.

"Then you need to decide if you want a phone call from the end of the driveway as warning when someone is coming to the house that should know you're here – or if there's something else you want as a way of telling friend from foe." He concentrated on the computer again for a quick moment, and then turned to me and his mug of chocolate.

"Calling from the end of the drive sounds like a good idea," I agreed with him. "At least then I'll know it's you…"

He nodded as he sipped at the hot drink and gave me a wide smile. "I LOVE hot chocolate, Mom. Every time I have it, I used to imagine that you'd made it for me. I really didn't understand the meaning of "comfort food" until I'd tasted it."

And this time, I actually HAD made it for him – and I smiled back at him. "It's been a dream to be in a place where I COULD make it for you, Jarod," I replied. "I've missed not having you around."

He actually had the grace to look embarrassed. "I wish we could be together more," he admitted, pushing the computer back on the table. "One day…"

I shook my head. "Don't promise things you can't keep," I warned him gently.

Jarod's dark eyes landed and held mine. "Sydney taught me NEVER to make a promise I don't intend to keep," he informed me soberly. "And I promise you that one day, we WILL be able to be together as a family – if it's the last thing I do."

_At least he taught you that much_, I thought as I accepted his fervent statement. "I hope you're right," I said aloud and then nodded at the computer. "So… What all can this thing do?"

oOoOo

"OK – the furnace should work just fine now," Jarod puffed at me as he climbed back out of the black hole that was the basement and closed the door behind him. "There's a washer and dryer are down there, for when you want to do laundry; and also your backup gasoline-powered generator, in case the electricity goes off in a storm. I made sure you had plenty of extra gas, just in case."

"Are there any candles or flashlights?" I asked him with raised brows. "I didn't see any while putting stuff away…"

Jarod made a wry face. "I think there are some under the kitchen sink – way in the back. I saw them once, a long time ago."

"Candles?"

"Yeah." He gave an appreciative sniff of the air. "That smells awfully good…"

"You've got enough time to shower," I told him, giving his grunge-covered face and soot-darkened hands a disparaging look. "I still have to do potatoes and carrots to go with the meal yet, and then make the gravy."

"I have one more thing to check before I wash up – so I'd better get to it." He bent and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before heading toward the front of the house and, from the sounds of it, a quick trip upstairs.

It was amazing – that simple kiss on the cheek had warmed my heart more than almost anything else he'd done for me that day. Dan used to do that – get ready to head off to do some task or chore and stop to give me a quick kiss on the way. It was the first sign that Jarod did, indeed, resemble and mimic the actions of his father – the first sign that there was more than just his father's dark hair and eyes in common between them.

I walked back to the sink and the potatoes and carrots awaiting their appointment with the peeler with my feet hardly touching the floor. For a little time, anyway, I could pretend I WAS home – and my son was, really, my son and not a stranger that I happened to have given birth to.

The potatoes and carrots were each boiling in their pots and I had a saucepan filled with the drippings from the roast to make gravy by the time I saw Jarod again. He'd obviously spent some time in the bathroom as well as shed the dusty, grimy overalls that had seen the inside of the furnace and wherever else he'd gone. "My stomach's starting to growl, it smells so good in here," he announced as he plopped down into a chair.

"Be patient," I chuckled at him, "or, better still, you can set the table while I finish this."

"Slave-driver," he teased as he pushed himself out of the chair again and headed to the cupboard.

The next couple of hours seemed to fly by. It was heaven to sit down to a meal I'd cooked myself and see a man dig into my offering with gusto. Jarod was at his most engaging ever, entertaining me with funny stories from his many adventures since he'd broken free of the Centre. One character that came up several times in the conversation was a man named Argyle – and his misadventures had me laughing so hard my sides hurt. I was able to tell a few tales of my own – stories about Dan and me in the carefree days before the Centre had crossed our paths. It was amazing - I had feared, less than a day before, that Jarod and I would have little to talk about; but sitting down at a table with him and sharing a relaxing meal cured me of that misapprehension.

Then, once the left-over food was put away and the dishes washed and dried, Jarod sat me down and taught me how to use the email program that he'd installed for me. "It's designed to work only with my IP, Mom," he told me seriously, "and there's a lot of security built into it."

It was a well-designed and easy to operate program. "Where's the address book?" I wanted to know eventually– and then I blinked when he clicked on the icon and I could see whose names he'd entered for me. "I thought you weren't going to give me his…" I pointed to the last person in the list.

"You never know – you may decide you need to reach him this way," Jarod shrugged. "I at least gave you the option."

"I'm not going to need to reach him," I declared firmly. "The next three or four weeks are going to go as smoothly as silk, and you'll be here after that to set me up somewhere new a long way away from Blue Cove – right?" I looked at him, my expression not quite a glare.

"That's the plan," he hedged. "But better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, right?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. "Suit yourself." I closed the address book and then sat back in the chair to look at my son.

He was thin – but it was a muscular thin that belied a great deal of strength. He had his father's dark hair and eyes – and my nose and lips. He looked back at me expectantly. "What?" he asked when I didn't say anything for a long and silent moment of study.

"What time do you leave tomorrow?" It was the question I'd been putting off all evening.

Jarod looked away with a guilty look. "Probably right after breakfast," he answered quickly, as if getting the shock out quickly would help at all. "I have to drive to Baltimore, find a place to rent and get set up, so that when things get started, I don't have too much left unsettled."

"And when will you be back?" I knew I sounded needy. I FELT needy – not entirely ready to face several days in a row with only myself for company.

Jarod was toying with the computer – doing something that I didn't want to understand at the moment. "With any luck – and if my plans go as scheduled – I should be back a week from now. I'll shop for your next week's groceries in Dover on the way through – so be sure to email me the shopping list no later than Friday, OK?"

"Jarod…" At last he looked at me again. "What if something goes wrong… here…"

"Nothing's gonna go wrong, Mom…"

"But…" I insisted. I'd been on my own long enough that I knew better. "What if it DOES? What if you're in the middle of whatever it is you have going there, and something happens…"

"Like what?" He sounded curious – certainly not as if he were taking me seriously.

"You're the Pretender," I snapped at him. "Can't you SIM out the possibilities?" It was as if I'd slapped him, and I was immediately sorry. "I didn't mean…"

"It's all right, Mom," he told me in a much cooler tone than I'd heard from him in a long time. "You have a valid concern – but I already answered this morning. If I can't get back to you for whatever reason – or if you have an emergency – Sydney's phone number is under the phone there on the counter. He gave me his word he'd see to your safety." He gestured at the computer. "Now, do you have any more questions about this?"

"Jarod…" The feeling of intimacy – of family, however small it was, was definitely gone.

It was as if my pronouncing his name was enough to spur him to action. He turned his wrist over to glance at his watch, and then rose after shutting down the computer and closing the top down so that it was like nothing more than a smallish silver placemat. "It's going to be a long day for me tomorrow," he announced firmly. "I think I'm going to call it a day."

"I'm sorry." I was – sorrier than I'd been in a long time. "I was cruel and thoughtless. Forgive me, please?"

"It's OK, Mom – I'm just tired." He bent over me and dropped another kiss on my cheek – but not as warm or loving as the one he'd given me earlier, in the afternoon. This was the dutiful peck of an obedient but frustrated son who was more a stranger than family. "Good night." He walked from the kitchen without a backward glance. The stairs squeaked under his tread, and then came the sound of a door closing gently but firmly.

I was devastated. For a few, short, magical hours, I'd had a loving son – and with only a few, thoughtless words, I'd exchanged him for the mysterious and incomprehensible stranger that wore my son's name and face. I'd always managed to anger Dan with my tendency to speak before thinking – and it seemed that his son was no more tolerant of my lapses than my husband had been all those years ago.

Feeling as if I'd just been kicked in the teeth, I carried Jarod's only half-empty mug of chocolate to the sink and dumped it, then rinsed the rest away and set it aside for washing in the morning – and followed by doing the same to my own. Some comfort food.

oOoOo

To say that I didn't sleep well that night would be a masterpiece of understatement. I tossed and turned, throwing my harsh words up in my own face like a blanket condemnation. Why had it never occurred to me that Jarod wasn't necessarily proud of what the Centre had made him? He continued to do exactly as they had taught him to do – with the only real difference being his serving his own agenda rather than theirs. Did he think THAT made him a monster?

The past two days had been the longest time I'd spent with him since his father had died – and I didn't know my son any better now than I had when he'd ripped me out of my comfortable but precarious position in Oakridge. And if I continued to make the same kind of mistakes with him that I'd made a little while ago, I seriously doubted I would ever get to know him better. There had to be a way to make things right again – to regain the loving son, even if only for a few minutes before he drove away and left me to my own devices for a whole week.

I rose and put on my bathrobe and slippers. It was ridiculous to try to sleep when insomnia struck this hard. I slipped down the stairs as quietly as I could, avoiding that spot on the second step down that creaked loudly every time it was depressed, and headed back to the kitchen. I filled the inside of the coffee percolator basket with filter and fresh grounds – and then filled the percolator itself with fresh water in preparation for a more reasonable hour to make coffee for the new day.

That done, I pulled out the left-over pot roast and sliced some decent slices from it – and then made several sandwiches that I carefully wrapped and put back in the fridge. At least Jarod would have some healthy food to nibble on while driving. I then took out the remains of the boiled potatoes and cut them into much smaller pieces that would be ideal for making hash browns to go with eggs for breakfast. He could have a tasty, substantial breakfast to maintain him while he drove.

I tried not to think too hard. It was too easy to drag myself into a depression if I thought too much while in this kind of mood. I just let my hands find small tasks to busy themselves with while my body refused to succumb to its need for sleep – and only allowed myself to concentrate on the task at hand.

"What are you doing up?"

I turned with a startled squeak. I hadn't heard him come down the stairs or walk from the front of the house. "What are YOU doing up?" I countered Jarod's question with one of my own, my tone of voice more one of bravado in the face of being startled than of parental chiding. "I thought you said you needed your rest – that tomorrow would be a big day…"

His face folded in disgust – at me or at himself, I couldn't be certain. "I don't sleep well, Mom – ever. I'm often up at this hour."

"Do you want some coffee then?" I asked, my hands automatically reaching for the percolator basket and stem assembly. "I can start this now…"

He moved and took the items out of my hands. "No – at least, not yet. Mom – go to bed. You look exhausted."

I looked up into his face and felt something snap inside. "I'm sorry Jarod. I really don't know what made me say what I did. I…" My emotions were too strong, and they carried my mouth away again even as the tears I'd worked so hard to deny filled my eyes. "I sometimes wonder if I'll ever get to know you – wonder if I'll ever not have a part of you that is a complete stranger to me, someone I… I…"

In response, Jarod did the one thing I hadn't expected. He put his arms around me and pulled me close. "It's OK, Mom," he soothed gently. "I just…" He sighed. "I'm sorry too. You just startled me, that's all."

"Oh honey!" My heart went out to him. "You know that I'm proud of you, no matter what, don't you?"

"I hear those words like a memory," he replied, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a very far way away. "I think I know you were proud of me when I was small, but… now…"

"It hasn't changed, Jarod." I clung to him tightly, wishing I could touch the spirit of that small boy that had been ripped away from me that lived inside the wounded and often prickly man who had eventually taken his place. "Listen to me. I'm still very proud of you. You help people that have no other recourse – even when they don't seem to deserve your time. You're a GOOD man, Jarod."

"I love you, Mom," Jarod whispered brokenly, his hug growing tighter. "I'm sorry I… walked away. That was no less cruel and thoughtless of me."

I felt as if a weight had dropped away. I had my son back. As if my body felt the tension seep away and realized it could let me know that it had more than had enough, I yawned widely. "You really do need to get some sleep," Jarod told me gently and set me away from him again. "But I'm glad we talked things out."

"I am too." I stretched up and gave HIM a kiss on the cheek – a kiss as full of a mother's love and pride as I could manage on my tiptoes – and cradled his cheeks between my hands. "You need your sleep too, you know. You have a big day coming tomorrow…"

"Yeah – well…" He put an arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the kitchen doorway. "I promise I'll try to get a few more Z's if you will."

My arm naturally found its place around his waist. "You're on!"

oOoOo

Jarod let me cook breakfast for him, and we talked of little things – our likes and dislikes. In many ways, I could tell, we were both making an effort to get to know the other in the brief amount of time left to us. I think Jarod was as pleased as I was to discover that we both loved and appreciated classical music – although I was a little nonplussed to find out that his passion for Mozart was another sign of Sydney's influence on him. Still, I couldn't complain much when it gave us just that iota more common ground between us – and also gave me some listening opportunities for later, when I dived into the massive selection of CD's stored in a case near the entertainment center.

He also finally broke down and told me a little about the job he was walking into – how an investment broker had been found shot to death in his office with few, if any, leads to who had killed him or why. Shyly he brought out a red notebook in which he'd cut and pasted the newspaper clipping that had caught his eye originally. When, in reading the article, I saw that the man had left behind a wife and two small children, I looked up at him. "You're doing it for the children, aren't you?" I asked, certain of my conclusion.

"Nobody should grow up in that kind of shadow," he said, taking the notebook back from me before I could really focus on the handwritten notations on the next few pages. "I've seen this kind of thing before."

"All I ask is that you be very, very careful," I told him firmly. "I want my chance to see you keep your promise to me."

"I do my best," he told me with that mischievous quirk to his lips that made him look positively impish. "I've been told I'm pretty good at it too."

"Oh hush!" I aimed a fake swat at his upper arm. "You know what I mean!"

"Yeah, I do." Oddly, he was suddenly quite serious. "And do you know how good it feels to know that there's actually someone who cares about me "just because"? Not because I'm a trained pet – or not because I do better at earning money when I do my job properly, but simply…"

"I've cared about you like that all along, honey," I said simply. "That's part of what a Mom does, you know."

"I know." His smile was shy and cautious. "But feeling it for real is different from just having it be words in a psychology book about family interactions, you know?"

"What about…" I caught myself before I stuck my foot in my mouth again – amazing myself that I'd had the foresight to manage it. Instead: "Can I ask you a question without your getting angry?"

His brown eyes looked into mine deeply – and I could feel him turning over the possibilities. "You want to know if Sydney ever cared like that."

His ability was eerie. "Yes." I wanted to know that he'd grown up knowing that at least one other human cared whether he lived or died "just because". I needed to know. It was important.

"I think…" he started, and then paused to consider again. "I think that had the circumstances been different, I wouldn't have to keep asking myself the same question." His gaze had grown sad and a little wistful. "I want to think so – sometimes, when we're talking… he sounds…" Jarod's voice ground to a halt on a painful note. He sighed and then continued, "But he's never said anything to confirm or deny…"

"Not even since you've been out?"

He shook his head. "I don't know whether what he does or doesn't feel now is a matter of finally being freer to express what was already there – or just a matter of guilt painting itself in camouflage colors."

"But you care about him." It wasn't a question.

"He raised me," Jarod stated flatly. "He did what he could to protect me from the real monsters inside the Centre – and, as I've discovered since I got out, paid a very high price for it." His heavy lids closed his eyes down to slits. "So yes, as much as sometimes I wish I didn't, I do care about him."

For some reason I couldn't explain to myself at the moment, I was glad. "Good."

That surprised him. "Good?"

I nodded. "Good. I'm glad. That speaks well for you."

He stared at me for a moment and then shook his head. "I'm afraid your reasoning on that one escapes me."

I chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Sometimes emotions are just there without a good reason – and trying to quantify them doesn't accomplish anything. The love between a parent and child is one of those instances."

"But Sydney wasn't…"

"No, he wasn't," I agreed, "but with your father and me out of the picture, he became the closest thing – to you. No matter what I think or feel about him, I can't ignore his presence in your life. I'm glad you still have it in you to care about him – regardless."

"I thought you…"

I put up a hand. "Don't get me wrong. I resent the hell out of the fact that HE watched you grow up and I didn't. I doubt I'll ever NOT resent him. But if what you say is true, and he really tried to protect you and teach you right from wrong, then he deserves your regard – despite whatever I might feel. I wasn't there – he was."

Jarod's dark eyes were glued to my face. "I wish I could stay with you longer," he breathed softly. "I want to understand you. I have so many questions – so much I don't know…" He sighed again. "Being here, having you around… it isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I'm thinking that I'm not exactly sure that I'm what you expected or wanted – and I want a chance to know you better…

I reached out and touched the closed cover of the red notebook. "But you need to help these people find some peace and closure – and bring a guilty man to justice – first," I told him gently. "When that's over – and before you find your next job – we can spend time together and I'll answer any question you put to me. I promise."

He nodded. "Fair enough!" Then he rose, and so did I. The moment I'd been dreading was upon me.

"Are you all packed?"

"Yeah – that was one of the things I did before falling back into bed after our little talk last night," he admitted. "And I need to get moving if I want to have everything done by bedtime tonight."

I gazed at him, trying to engrave his face and countenance into my mind and heart. "I'm going to miss you. Next Saturday seems such a long way away."

I don't think I will ever get tired of having my son give me a hug. While I'm close to him, I can almost convince myself that we're strong enough to bear whatever comes our way. "I love you, Mom," he told me very softly – and I felt him lay his cheek on the top of my head. "I'll call you when I leave Baltimore next weekend, so you know I'm coming."

"Let me know you got there safely today too, OK?" I asked with my face pressed into the soft, warm, black leather of the jacket he'd worn down to the breakfast table.

I could hear his chuckle start all the way down practically at the soles of his feet. "I didn't have you pegged as a worry-wart, Mom…"

"Gimme a break…" I guffawed along with him.

"OK – I'll call when I'm settled in to the new place. Fair?"

I nodded and then pushed myself away from him. "I love you, Jarod." I pushed myself up on tiptoe again so I could kiss his cheek. "I love you, and I'm proud of you – and I just want you to be happy." I stepped away. "Go on now – go help that Baltimore family."

He bent and kissed my cheek – and I felt that swell of warmth again. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, and then he was heading to the front of the house. A few moments later, he was back – duffel bag, computer case and a strange silver briefcase in hand. "Behave yourself and stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

"I promise," I told him with an impish grin of my own. I got one more quick, tight, warm hug – and then he was out the back door. Moments later, I heard the sound of his SUV's engine warming up; and a minute or so after that, the engine purr diminished as he drove down the long drive to the narrow lane that would lead him back to the highway.

I wrapped my arms around myself and headed back towards the kitchen table and the dirty dishes that waited there to be collected and rinsed. I was alone again – and destined to hear no other living voice than my own for the next week. Slowly I picked up all the dishes except my own coffee mug and cleared away the meal. Rinsed and stacked, the dishes could wait until after I'd had lunch and supper.

I had a house to clean from top to bottom, a computer to give me Internet access, a stereo for music, plenty of DVD movies to watch if I got totally bored, and a room full of books to explore. And, if I really couldn't get excited about any of the rest, there was a room at the top of the stairs – a room chock full of another family's traditions and memories.

But I didn't look forward to any of it.

oOoOo

I worked hard and got the living room dusted and vacuumed that first day – although I took my time while dusting the books in the bookcase. I'd been right that Jarod's library was eclectic. There were a number of highly technical manuals and complex dissertations on psychology and logic – mixed in with an encyclopedia of How Things Work, a number of books dealing with several of the world's major religions, books of fairy tales from different parts of the world AND, surprisingly enough, a good number of Agatha Christy's mysteries. It was a temptation to stand there and open the books as I dusted their tops and spines.

The same temptation loomed as I dusted the CD and DVD collections. Already I'd found a selection of good work music to fill the emptiness of the house with coherent sound, but Jarod's taste in music was far-ranging even by my standards. There were a number of albums by popular rock and country music artists mixed in with the orchestral classics. The movies covered just about every possible genre from comedy to horror – and included some collections of real classic television series like The Three Stooges and Father Knows Best in with powerful whodunits and thrillers and parodies.

I wasn't hungry for lunch – but I was ready for a roast sandwich and green salad by the time the sunlight began to fade. I carried my plate into the living room and put on a movie – hungry for the sound of a voice in my ear. It was a favorite of mine – an old Alfred Hitchcock thriller named The Birds – one that I'd seen a million times and could watch over and over again. After the movie, I cleaned the day's dishes and headed to the computer to play a game or two of solitaire.

The sound of the telephone ringing made me jump. Only after I stood for a second, trying to catch my breath, did I realize the probable identity of the caller. I picked up the receiver. "Hello - Jarod?"

"Hi Mom." I was right – it was Jarod, and he was OK. "Just calling to let you know that I've got my place, and everything is fine and ready to get started in the morning."

I felt a little piece of tension I'd carried with me all through the day slide away. "How was the drive?" I asked, reaching for the first thing I could think of to keep him on the line.

"Long," he said in a voice that told me clearly how fatigued he was. "How was your day?"

"I got a lot accomplished," I related, settling into a kitchen chair. "AND I got a chance to sort through your library and music and movies…"

"Find anything you liked?"

I laughed then. "You have interesting tastes. Some of those music groups I've never heard of before, you know…"

"Give them a try," he suggested, and I could almost see that mischievous quirk of his lips. "You never know – you might just like them."

Then there was a pause – as if neither of us knew exactly what to say to the other now that the obligatory niceties had been exchanged. I closed my eyes, wishing as hard as I knew how that these lapses could begin to grow fewer as briefer in the days and weeks ahead. "I suppose I should let you rest, then," I told him finally. "You'll probably be having another big day tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'll give you a call in a day or so – let you know how things are going."

The idea that he actually WANTED to keep in closer touch was encouraging. "That would be nice," I nodded. "Sleep well, and be careful now."

"I will, Mom. You rest up too. Enjoy your vacation."

I blinked when I realized that Jarod had cut the connection between us without saying goodbye. The sudden separation felt like the slash of a knife – and drove home the point that I was once more alone.

Alone and out in the middle of blessed nowhere snuggled up against the backside of the one place on Earth that I did NOT want to be close to. I moved through the house to the living room and tweaked the curtains aside. Already the sun had set, and there was a dim blue glow to the snow from the moon floating in the sky above the treetops. It was a cold scene and a very lonely one.

Disheartened, I turned away, allowing the curtain to fall once more. I made my way slowly up the stairs and into my bedroom, whereupon I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed. I pulled the covers – light-weight fleece blankets and crisp linen sheets – over my shoulders as I settled against my pillow, as if that would protect me from the chill that had settled into my mind, reflecting the cold scene playing outside the clapboard walls.

And yet, for all that I tried, I once more couldn't get to sleep. It wasn't storming, but the wind through the branches of the trees and bushes that surrounded the cabin made for a mournful sound that kept breaking through my attempts to doze. Several times I could have sworn that I could hear someone walking about downstairs – even though I knew that both doors had been locked. I even peeked out the windows – to find the snow that surrounded the house undisturbed by any tracks leading either to or from the house itself.

_Get a hold of yourself, Peg Charles,_ I thought the second time that I got up and forced myself to do a walk-through of the house to reassure myself that I was indeed alone and quite safe. _These are just the jitters that come when you first settle into a new place. You're fine – Jarod wouldn't leave you out here if you weren't safe…_

But when the morning came, I needed almost a full pot of coffee to regain any kind of incentive to continue the job of cleaning. I was alone, and without anybody else in the place for whom to work, I was having trouble finding a reason to do anything.

I couldn't call Jarod – he had his plate full with this Pretend to contend with. He didn't need to know that his mother had a deep-seated fear of isolation, born of years forced to hide and eschew any kind of relationships that could bring the Centre's fury down on an innocent. He had no idea how much I had depended on the ability to reach out and absorb my emotional stability just from the superficial contact with acquaintances I would make along the way – or how difficult for me depriving me of that casual contact would be. I hadn't realized it myself either, in fact, until just now.

That day I continued to clean as if the work had any meaning other than just being something to do to waste the time between getting up in the morning and going to bed again at night. What had at first looked like fun had become a chore – and finding music that would nourish a better mood while inspiring effort didn't happen. I tackled the upstairs bedrooms – my own first – and later dragged the linens from Jarod's bed down to the basement and the washing machine. Once more, I was barely hungry for the entire day – this time I ate the rest of the left-over roast and more salad for lunch and then simply made some toast to go with hot chocolate for supper. And once more I watched a movie while I ate in the evening in order to remember what adult conversation could sound like – this time, choosing Cactus Flower for its broad humor and gentle lesson in human relationships over anything more intense.

It didn't help.

The walls were starting to close in on me. I was all too eager to climb into bed – only to discover that I couldn't fall asleep again. I don't know exactly how long I lay in bed, fighting the darkness and the desolate whine of the wind outside my window - getting up more than once to walk the house to make sure I'd remembered to lock up – before I finally fell asleep. It was fully daylight, however, when I finally did awaken again – and by then, I'd had it.

Something had to give – and that something damned well wasn't going to be my sanity.


	3. Contact

Chapter 3 – Contact

After breakfast, I found myself staring down at the computer screen, studying the addresses that Jarod had fed into the email address book. The first name that appeared – Ethan's – I decided to skip over. I would probably leave off writing to him until I'd thought of a way to break the ice. After all, I was nothing but the widow of his father – someone who didn't even have the tie of blood to call upon to be the foundations of a relationship. JD I felt equally ill at ease writing to yet – even though he was my son by blood, I'd never known him. Like Jarod and Kyle, the man he was would be an utter stranger to me; and I was already dealing with a stranger in Jarod. I would have to be feeling pretty brave to try to approach him.

Emily was the first name for whom I could summon a face and know that I would be addressing someone I knew. I dashed her off a quick note, explaining what had happened and why I was writing to her from a completely new email account. Not knowing how much Em and Jarod were in contact, however, I kept quiet about my unease and general discontent – I didn't need Em calling Jarod and disrupting his delicate work to comfort a mentally unstable mother. I also dropped Jarod a note, letting him know that his cabin now shone from top to bottom and that I was greatly looking forward to having his company again on Saturday. Those notes were easy.

I then entered an email address that Jarod hadn't had into the address book – the address to the principal of Oakridge Elementary. In my note to Jarod, I had asked how secure this email account was – and if he said that the account was untraceable, I was going to at least write a long note of explanation to Clive. He deserved better than being abandoned on a Friday mid-afternoon. I would tell him nothing of where I had gone, but I would at least say goodbye.

Then I stared at the last name on the list for a very long time, sipping at my cooling coffee: Dr. Sydney Green. He was the man who knew my son better than almost any other human alive – someone whose influence was deeply engraved in the persona of the man my stolen son had become, even though I couldn't recognize it as such when I was with Jarod. I could mine Sydney for information – IF I wanted to actually contact him and do something other than rail at him in complete fury, that was…

At the very least, he owed me that much.

I put the image of Jarod sitting at the breakfast table with me that last morning at the front of my mind. He'd been relaxed and relatively happy about just about everything except the need to leave – and still, there was so much about him that was a complete mystery to me. Sydney, for all that I wished he could just drop off the face of the Earth, held the key to helping me understand Jarod. I wanted to understand Jarod – NEEDED to understand him better than I did.

I had no choice. I opened up a new email and put his name into the To field, left the Subject field blank, and then stared at the blinking cursor as it waited in the message body for me to begin to write. How did I want to do this? I thought for a long time, and then decided that short and blunt might be the most effective. So I typed in:

"Tell me about my son. Margaret Charles"

…and quickly clicked the OK button to send the missive away before I had a chance to regret or delete it. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I again sipped on the tepid coffee as I watched the connection screen drop away. I'd done it – for good or ill, I'd opened dialogue with a monster. I pushed the power button to start the shut-down process and rose from my chair as if needing to put distance between myself and the instrument of my contact.

I had decided while getting dressed that after two days of continuous cleaning, today would be a day to relax. I was determined to pull myself out of my emotional tailspin – and diving into an absorbing book sounded like just the recipe for relaxation. Agatha Christy's _And Then There Were None_ had been a favorite read of mine while I was in high school, but I hadn't had either the opportunity or time to indulge in reading it again for decades. I loaded the 5 CD changer with light classical music that wouldn't intrude on the reading experience and dropped into one of the fabric easy chairs. For today, at least, I would treat this experience like vacation, as Jarod had suggested.

Amazingly, I was actually feeling a little hungry by lunchtime – and by suppertime had only a chapter or so to finish when my stomach growled loudly enough to get my attention. The music had done its job well – I was feeling much more like myself, despite the fact that I would put in another movie after supper just to hear the sound of human voices.

I toasted some toast and made myself some soft-boiled eggs, and reached for a bottle of cranberry juice instead of hot chocolate. I was in the mood for something different, after all. I eyed the computer, sitting quiet and closed and waiting for me on the other edge of the kitchen table. That morning, I'd put out tentative touches to living people – mostly family – to let myself know that I was still alive; had any of those touches been answered?

I cleaned the rest of my egg with the last piece of toast, pushed the plate to the side and then pulled the computer toward me. I turned the device on and, with a hand that almost shook, clicked on the email client icon on the screen. Jarod's program fired up almost immediately – and put up the screen that indicated connection information. I had two emails waiting for me!

I couldn't help it – I whooped! Someone knew I was still alive! I sipped at my juice and opened my inbox. On top was a reply from my daughter – telling me that Jarod had indeed phoned her about my situation and wishing that she had some time off available to come down and keep me company. But she was currently in the middle of research on a rather complex story of internal city politics and corruption, and her editor was starting to put the pressure on for her to finish – so she wouldn't be able to do much before the end of next week. I immediately answered her – telling her that whenever she had the time to come would be appreciated.

The second email I hesitated over. It was from him – the monster.

I hadn't considered that he would be such a prompt correspondent. Jarod had said that he disliked technology and used a computer only for reports. Actually, I'd halfway expected him to ignore me. After all, he'd agreed to help in case of emergency – and this was anything but. I was both curious and a bit fearful about opening the message.

His answer to me was as short and sweet as my demand had been to him:

"What do you want to know? Sydney"

I sat with my mouth gaping open for a moment. It was a legitimate question – but what would be my answer to him? What DID I want to know?

My mind had often spun futilely in trying to imagine what Jarod had gone through those thirty years behind Centre walls. He had told me very little about those days, however – and what little he'd told me about the lives of his brothers and the genetic duplicate that had been made of him had made me sick to my stomach. Did I want to know how he'd been mistreated? Did I want to know just exactly what it was about being a Pretender that made him ashamed?

I nodded to myself. That would make a good place to start. I hit the reply button and typed:

"Tell me why he's ashamed of who he is and what he does. Margaret"

I pushed the Send button with a tight smile of satisfaction. Let HIM stew over a proper response!

I then opened the address book again and clicked on JD's name. My family was all that I had of value – it was time to try to pull it together as much as I could by reaching out to my other son. Perhaps short and sweet to him might be a good way to start too. If it had worked with a monster, it might just work for a son I had never known I had until he was already grown. I gave my message the subject of "Hello" and typed:

"I know you don't know me, but I'm your mother – Jarod's mother. I think of myself as yours too. I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you and hoping that everything is going well with you. Mom"

I re-read what I'd typed and then hit Send That would do for now. I'd wait and see what kind of response I got before tackling contacting Ethan.

I closed down the email program and played a couple of games of solitaire – then found myself missing the feel of a deck of cards in my hands. A couple of favorite solitaire variations weren't included in the collection on the computer anyway. I decided that tomorrow would be a good time to tear apart all the drawers in the house, looking for a deck of cards – or to tell Jarod to be sure to get one when he came for his visit.

I shut off the computer, made myself a cup of hot chocolate, and then popped "Logan's Run" into the DVD player. Fantasy – even one with a message – was more what I was in the mood for that evening.

And, at last, when I went to bed, I fell asleep almost immediately and slept the night through.

oOoOo

I awoke refreshed, but to a howling storm. Outside the house, the wind whipped the trees until they were almost snapping, making the air almost opaque with blowing snow. I carried my clothing downstairs and took a hot shower to try to warm myself up before heading into the kitchen to set the percolator on the stove and make a fresh pot of hot coffee. While running my night clothes back upstairs, I stopped at the entertainment center and turned on the radio to see if I could get some weather reports – only to hear that the storm was expected to worsen over the course of the day.

With a steaming cup of coffee next to me, I opened the computer to see whether I had any email – and lo and behold, I had three messages waiting this time.

The first was from Jarod, telling me that he suspected I'd get tired of housecleaning soon – how could he guess – but that everything seemed to be on track for a visit on Saturday. He seemed upbeat, letting me know that things with his Pretend seemed to be progressing in a satisfactory manner. He also asked if there were any particular vocal groups whose CDs I hadn't found in his collection that I wanted him to pick up – or any movies that I enjoyed that weren't in his video library. I hit reply and let him know that he wouldn't have to worry about either of those problems until I'd worked my way to the bottom of what he had here already. I told him to drive carefully – that the storm seemed to be piling snow on snow in these parts.

The second was a long message from JD, thanking me for contacting him and asking me all sorts of questions about myself, about his father, about Jarod and about our family. I got the feeling from him that he was desperately hungry to figure out who he was and where he fit in – and I spent a good chunk of time answering his questions as completely as I could – and let him know that I was looking forward to getting a chance to get to know him better. I decided that when Jarod finally freed me from this isolated cage, JD would be one of the first people I spent time with.

Sydney had answered me again – his email was the last on my list. I had to give the man credit – he wasn't trying to avoid me. I refilled my coffee cup and clicked to open the message.

"I seriously doubt that Jarod is ashamed of who he is or what he has become. If anything, he has a deep and abiding guilt about the uses to which his work done while in the Centre was put that might appear as shame to one who doesn't know him well. For what it's worth, I share his feelings on that matter. Anything else? Sydney"

That didn't help – it didn't explain why Jarod had closed down when I'd thrown his being a Pretender in his face. Unless…

I found myself blushing in shame as I finally – FINALLY – understood the dynamics of that exchange. He was a Pretender to THEM – to those in the Centre and probably to those he spent hours and days and weeks helping – but to me, he was supposed to be a loving, concerned son seeing to his mother's welfare. I'd blurred that line rather abruptly for him – and in so doing touched the part of him that wasn't what he wanted to be with me. It wasn't shame he'd felt, but anger and shock.

I read the message again – pushing aside the realization that Sydney had indeed helped more than he might possibly know after all. So the monster shared Jarod's "deep and abiding guilt", eh? What had Jarod said – "Guilt can be a wonderful motivator, when used properly."? That implied that Sydney might not have been so willing to help…

"Did Jarod blackmail you into helping me in an emergency? Margaret"

…was the next flaming arrow that I hit Send on before I could reconsider. If I was going to be expected to depend on this man when or if Jarod was unable to assist, I needed to know where I stood with him. Jarod might trust him – I sure as hell didn't.

I eyed Ethan's name in the address book for a while, but then closed down the email client without attempting to write to him. I still didn't know to say to him – what slim thread might actually tie him to me in a family way – and until I could figure that one out, it was best to leave him alone.

I had a few chores lined out for myself to do before settling down with another book from the bookcases. The linens from Jarod's bed were dry and ready to be put back on the bed. I took the time to really look around the basement while I was down there this time, and decided that a broom and dustpan wouldn't be out of line once the bed was made. There was a workbench off to one side, with a stash of carpentry tools and supplies laid on shelves that had been affixed to the basement wall somehow. At the back end of the basement, past the furnace, the washer-drier and the silent generator was a wall filled with shelves – wood cases, really – that had dozens of glass jars stored. I walked up to the shelves and realized I was looking at an old-fashioned pantry filled with home-canned goods. There was fruit as well as vegetables put up God only knew how long ago – each carefully labeled as to content.

I shook my head. I'd done some canning in the early days of my marriage – but since entering my life on the run, not even thought of the process since. Still, the memories flooded in – helping Harriet can tomatoes in the late summer while I'd been pregnant with Emily and, in the days afterwards, being privileged to take a few of those jars to make soup as the days grew colder. Knowing that I'd done the work myself had made that soup taste extra-special – how could I have forgotten?

It took some time to sweep up several decades of dust from the hard-packed floor and swipe down several healthy and aging spider webs from the overhead rafters that were the floor supports for the rest of the house. This wouldn't be a bad place to put down roots, I decided – if it weren't for the fact that it was so far from everything and everyone. It was just the right size for one person to keep clean without too much effort – and in many ways, the décor, while certainly aged, was comfortable.

Lunchtime was approaching, and the work I'd done had made me hungry for a change. I hadn't been stewing about my isolation, but rather spending time with happy and restful memories and non-stressful conjecture. I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and opened a can of soup – and seated myself in a chair where I could look out the window and study the progress of the storm raging outside. It was still blowing hard – and the window casing was partially filled with snow that had lodged against the small ridges of the casing itself.

I poured the end of the coffeepot into my mug and carried it with me into the living room, started up the CD player again with the same selection of music from the day before, and pulled out _The 1001 Arabian Nights_. Again, it was something I'd read a lifetime ago, something that would pull me in and keep my mind rested yet occupied. But it was a bigger book than the mystery; so by the time my stomach told me it was suppertime, I'd only managed to get through half of it.

Tonight I decided I was going to do some real cooking and threw together a casserole that would provide several meals over the next day or so. I had plenty of ingredients – both frozen, canned and dried – to choose from, and so let my imagination and memory of what went well with what lead me. I have to admit that the result was tastier than I'd expected. I'd have to discipline myself to keep from dipping into it at odd hours. My wardrobe was small enough that I couldn't afford to gain any weight.

Once more, after I'd eaten my fill, I pushed my plate away and pulled the computer to me. JD had answered my long message with one of his own, astonishingly open about his doubts and fears about being something created in a laboratory rather than like other people with parents. My heart went out to him – and in my reply, I tried to reassure him as best I could. I should have known that he'd be an emotionally needy person – he'd been raised being told one lie after another, and then ripped out of that lie into a harsher reality than he could ever have imagined. Something told me that once I left this place and went to visit JD, I wouldn't be living alone for a while – and that thought in itself was comforting.

Jarod had written too, reminding me that it was now Wednesday and that he would like to have a shopping list by Friday at the latest so that he could restock me when he came through Dover on his way here. I promised him I'd take a look at what I'd gone through and send the list in the next day or so. Included in his message was a reassurance that his email server was indeed secure but asking why I'd felt the need to ask – so I was honest with him and told him everything. I wanted very much to write to Clive and let him know what had happened and why I'd had to leave the school so abruptly – and I wanted to know that doing so would be safe.

Emily had written too, demanding to know how I was doing being stuck off in a snow drift by myself. To her, finally, I opened a little and expressed some of how I'd felt and the steps I'd taken to help myself combat the depression and loneliness. I actually found that I felt better getting some of those feelings down where I could read them. Perhaps keeping a journal wouldn't be a bad idea too – and I knew this computer had a word processor stored in it somewhere…

Finally I clicked on Sydney's email.

"He didn't blackmail me to help you – he knew he didn't need to. Sydney"

Now THAT didn't make sense to me. Dr. Sydney Green, M.D. was a dedicated employee of the Centre – and it was a declared goal of the Centre to bring Jarod back and force him to resume the work he'd been doing for them. To forward that goal, Jarod told me that the Centre was actively seeking to gain custody of myself or any other member of my family. And yet, this monster – this dedicated and long-time employee of the Centre – was asking me to believe that he would work contrary to the interests of…

I looked up suddenly and eyed the phone. Beneath it, I knew, was Sydney's telephone number – and quicker answers to my questions. The question was, did I want to talk to him – REALLY talk to him? Email was impersonal – distant. If I used the phone, I would deliberately remove some of that distance – I'd be able to hear inflections in the voice, know just a little better what was going on in his mind as he spoke. Did I want that – and did I want HIM to have similar insight into ME??

It was Wednesday night – and I'd not had another human voice in my ear talking to ME since Jarod's call on Sunday. Email helped, but it wasn't exactly the kind of contact I craved, I thrived upon. My sense of isolation and loneliness closed in on me for a brief, agonizing moment – and I knew that even talking to a monster would be better than living another single day without having anyone at all to talk to.

I rose and walked over to the telephone, picked it up and retrieved the little paper from beneath it. There, in Jarod's clear and bold handwriting were the two numbers he'd given me – his own, in case of emergency, and Sydney's. The telephone itself, thankfully, had a long cord tethering it to the wall – long enough that I could bring the phone over to the table and sit down again to think things through again. Breaking silence was a big step – one that deserved thinking through more than once.

I stared at the paper and the second line written upon it, slowly beginning to feel the hesitation build. I'd been dealing with the Centre long enough that I knew much of the drill. If there was a trace on Sydney's line, the Centre would know that I called the moment he picked up the phone. They'd then be able to trace the call back to this cabin – and they'd come for me and in the process destroy Jarod's prized refuge. No! I'd seen in the expression of pride and ownership in my son's face what this cabin – and the option to relax in the myopic shadow of his pursuers – meant to him. I couldn't jeopardize that, not without good reason. I pushed the phone away and pulled the computer closer again. I could wait until Jarod got here to have someone to talk to. Email would have to do:

"You expect me to believe you could steal my son from his family, keep him a prisoner and a slave for thirty years, be involved in the search to get him back – and yet be convinced to help me elude the Centre without being pushed into it? Margaret"

I clicked Send with a vengeance, and then closed down the computer. "Just what kind of fool do you take me for?" I argued aloud as I carried the telephone back to its spot on the end of the counter and placed the little paper under it. I then walked out into the living room. I didn't even pay attention to the DVD I selected, nor did I really try to follow the action-packed storyline. I closed my eyes and let the sound of voices wash over me and give me a brief illusion of being in a place filled with other people – people who weren't looking for me or my son.

And I fell asleep on the couch.

oOoOo

Eventually the cold woke me – to discover the television with a blank blue screen displaying the brand name of the DVD player. I yawned and sat up, having tipped over onto the padded arm of the couch sometime in my slumber, and reached for the remotes on the coffee table to turn off the appliances. I shivered as I rose and turned off the floor lamp and then headed back toward the kitchen for a drink of water before bed.

Outside, however, all was quiet now except for the occasional snapping of a tree branch breaking. I tweaked aside the curtains in my bedroom to look down onto the snowy expanse that was the front yard of the cabin. The sky was crystal clear, with stars gleaming brightly overhead through the barren branches of the trees that encircled the cabin. The moon hung low on the horizon, giving the landscape its eerie blue glow. I could almost see the temperature out there dropping to a deadly low. I shivered again and hurried to climb into my flannel nightgown and crawl into bed, and then laid there for several minutes continuing to shiver until my body had warmed the covers above it enough to counteract my chill.

Once awake, however, I found my mind unwilling to slow down again enough that I could drop off into slumber. Instead, I found myself arguing with that last message of Sydney's in my mind – accusing him of all the horrible things I imagined that he'd done for all those years and listening to the silence of having no answer with increased dissatisfaction. It took me a while to finally begin to pay attention to where my mind was going – and to realize I'd done something other than what I'd intended. Somehow, my effort to understand Jarod had twisted into something else – something that tapped into the deep well of fury that had been locked away all these years.

Whether Sydney deserved to have my wrath dumped about his shoulders was moot – if I wanted to understand Jarod, I'd need to move past that fury. I needed to put it back under lock and key before it became irrepressible. I was disgusted, both with myself and with Sydney when I decided that, regardless of his response or lack of response in the morning, I'd send him an apology. Me, apologizing to a monster – what irony!

Then I almost sat up in bed in surprise. What was I doing? I was almost counting on the monster answering me by morning? How desperate must I be becoming to cling to the idea that someone I'd hated for most of my adult life would answer my email in a prompt fashion?

God, but I was pathetic! I needed to get away from this place! I needed people – REAL people who had no conception of who or what the Centre was. I needed to talk to someone – another adult – about something light and trivial and non-confrontational. If I stayed here much longer, I ran the risk of losing my ability to reason properly – or to recognize danger when it came close. I had almost broken silence that night and called someone whose motives toward both me and Jarod were supremely suspect.

I lay back into my pillow and rolled into a ball on my side, pulling the blankets over my head. I was miserable, and I was trapped.

And somehow, sometime before the sun began to peek in my window, I fell into a fitful sleep.

oOoOo

The day dawned dreary and overcast. The morning weather report was unclear as to whether or not we could expect more snow in the next day or so – but it reported that several of the major highways through Delaware were still being cleared. Not much traffic would be moving today for any reason.

I trudged into the kitchen with my bathrobe- clad arms wrapped around myself, hurried to put together the percolator for some morning coffee, and then stood in front of the stove relishing the sensation of heat from the covered burner. I was tired, I was depressed, and I was cold. That stood to create a less than optimal mood. When Jarod got here, I'd see whether I could talk him into taking me somewhere a little closer to civilization. This complete isolation was just not going to work for me.

I boiled water and made myself some of the instant apples and cinnamon oatmeal that Jarod had fed us that first morning here. With hot food and drink in my belly warming my body and caffeine beginning to stir through my veins, I began to feel just a bit more human. As was quickly becoming my habit, I pulled the computer over to me after pushing aside my empty breakfast bowl and brought up the email client.

Jarod sent me a quick message recommending that I send whatever message I wanted to send to Clive to HIM – and that he would make sure that whatever electronic trail such an email might gather on its way to Oakridge wouldn't lead back to his secure email server or me. I sighed in relief that I'd finally be able to get that message sent out, and decided that I'd leave that one to last.

JD had sent me another long, needy message, telling me about how he'd evidently allowed himself to become quite close with his father – and how Dan's sudden death had taken quite a bit of his sense of security away. Ethan, he told me, was doing much better in that respect – but that he was feeling very alone and lost. He'd never had a Mom before – and from what little he'd been allowed to learn about parenting, he wanted one. I wrote him back a short and encouraging note, feeling less and less secure in my ability to mother a damaged young adult but determined to try when I finally got the chance.

Then, of course, there was the message from HIM, answering my clear statement of distrust:

"I can understand why you feel this way. Were I in your shoes, I'd probably feel the same. Unfortunately, there is little I can do at this time to convince you to trust me, so I won't waste your time or mine trying. Have I answered all your questions about Jarod, or is there anything else I can help you with? Sydney"

I felt as if I'd just been chastised. He thought trying to win my trust in the face of such convincing evidence to the contrary would be a waste of his time? Then again, putting myself in HIS shoes, I could see that without a broader basis of acquaintance, he was probably right. I had to admit that I was slowly gaining a grudging respect for the man and his way of addressing the issue I presented to him without flinching – and without any attempt either to take the discussion off at a tangent or make excuses.

So, once more he'd dumped the ball in my lap: what DID I want to know about my son?

"Why did Jarod finally decide to escape the Centre – and why do they want him back so badly? What is it about being a "Pretender" that makes him so valuable that even I have to hide to protect him? Margaret"

I re-read my question and then sent it away without feeling any tension or satisfaction in the least. I had never completely understood what it was that Jarod had done for the Centre that had been so valuable – perhaps Sydney could make that plainer to me.

I rose and, pencil and paper in hand, went through my panty, refrigerator and cupboards to note down a shopping list for Jarod and his next visit, which I then dutifully posted to him. I kept in mind that I truly wanted to be elsewhere by this time next week, and so didn't order anything perishable. I then spent a goodly amount of time condensing the events leading up to my sudden flight into a short and succinct message to Clive – and let him know that reply to this message would be impossible. I apologized for the need to leave him in the lurch, and hoped that once he had a better substitute school secretary, he could find it in his heart to forgive me. I didn't feel any better after having sent it along to Jarod to forward – but I did feel a certain sense of relief that at least now a very nice and decent man would at least know what had happened to the standoffish woman he'd been working with for the past three months.

By the time I'd finished that last, very difficult message and sent it off, I noted that I had another email in my inbox already. It was from Sydney:

"Jarod left the Centre after a friend of his was harmed in the process of trying to force Jarod to finish a project involving biochemical weaponry. When Jarod produced the finished product, the friend was summarily executed to reinforce the concept that Jarod was nothing but Centre property – without any rights at all. Jarod was gone a week later. What has he told you about his past, what he is and what he can do? Perhaps I can start from there and fill in the blanks to answer your other questions. It would probably be easier on both of us. Sydney"

A friend – murdered? Executed? Just to make sure Jarod understood that he was less than human in the eyes of the Centre? I couldn't say I was surprised, but it was astonishing to have my suspicions confirmed so bluntly. My poor son!

Once more I eyed the telephone. I needed answers – and I needed them in something other than dabs and dribbles. I needed to TALK to Sydney – toward whom I was no longer feeling quite so antagonistic. He'd been doing his best to answer me in short and concise messages – giving me exactly what I asked for – but I needed more. Something told me the greater story was important, especially if I wanted to understand what made my son tick nowadays.

I caught myself rising to bring the phone and the paper with the tempting telephone number to the table and forced myself to settle back into my chair. The danger of a tapped phone line was still altogether too real and too much the kind of thing the Centre would do to its own, IF the hints that Jarod had dropped about the place were any indication and IF what Sydney had just reported were true. What was more, just by answering my emails, it was possible Sydney was putting himself in as much jeopardy as Jarod had put me in by stowing me so close to the Centre perimeter. I had forgotten that he was probably writing these messages at work since his dislike of technology probably meant he had no computer at home. If he was my backup for when Jarod couldn't come for me, then the last thing I needed to do was compromise HIS safety…

"How dangerous is it for you to write to me this way? Margaret"

I hit Send and then sat back, reviewing what I'd asked and shaking my head in astonishment. What was wrong with me? I was worrying about whether or not a monster was in danger? Since when did I care whether this Sydney lived or died?

I sipped at my coffee and faced the truth. I started caring when this Sydney stopped being just "the monster" and began to give me information I'd been wanting for years – when he stopped being just a name to loathe and became an unseen correspondent whose messages I genuinely looked forward to with anticipation.

It was time for me to put the computer away and do something with my day. I remembered I hadn't torn the place apart looking for a deck of cards yet – so I put that on the top of my to-do list, along with finishing reading _The 1001 Arabian Nights_. Maybe by the time I finished reading through another book of fantasy tales, I'd be ready to come out to the computer and begin typing in a journal. It was time for me to use my time creatively.

I walked upstairs, remembering that once upon a time, SO long ago, I used to write poetry. That was something else that had been relegated to being just a memory when I had shifted into survival mode – and something that I could try again while I was sitting around with nothing else urgent to do.

As I brushed out my hair, I saw that it was finally getting long again. After I'd run into the woman on that forsaken Scottish isle who had so reminded me of my old friend, Catherine Jamison, I'd cut my hair and had it permed so as to change my appearance as much as possible. The change had caught Jarod by surprise – I'd seen his eyes widen when he'd finally seen past it to my face. I think he was a little disappointed that I'd changed my looks, and I think I'd unconsciously been gradually letting it get longer and longer between haircuts so as to return to the woman he'd been seeking. I'd gone almost a year now since my last visit to the hairdresser, and my hair was falling well below my shoulders again. I caught it back and braided it, then went back downstairs to hunt for the deck of cards.

I found them at the very back of a utility drawer in the kitchen – just when I was about to give up and try to remember to write Jarod about buying some with his grocery run. They were bent, worn, obviously well-used – and I hauled them to the table to count them out and make sure it was a full deck before shuffling them and playing a quick game that I hadn't tried in years. Of course I lost – but just being able to play without worry of time constraints, children crying or fear of discovery was therapeutic.

I stacked the deck close to the salt and pepper shakers and reached for the computer. It wasn't hard to figure out where the word processing program was – and I stared at the blank white screen for a long time without the vaguest idea of how to begin. I rose and poured myself a glass of grape juice, stored the remainder in the fridge and returned to my seat in front of that infuriatingly empty screen. Who would have guessed that I'd fall victim to writer's block?

Well, there was no help for it then – and I shut the computer off again. It was Thursday, and I hadn't dusted the downstairs since Sunday, so I headed to the linen closet for a clean cloth. Once that was finished, I even dragged out the dust mop and ran it around the edges of the high-piled Persian rug and then ran a manual sweeper over the rug itself. By the time I was done, it was noon – and I was hungry again.

I set out some hamburger to thaw so that I could make a nice, large meatloaf for supper that would provide sandwich makings for while Jarod was here, then opened another can of tomato soup. As I sat and ate it, my mind took me back to the days when Jarod had been a tiny boy entranced by the idea of floating canned shoestring potatos in the warm, red liquid. He'd called them "thistles" for some reason. I decided that when I sent out email that night, I'd ask him to pick a can or two.

It was odd – now that I had so little to keep my mind active, I was having memories of those happier days bubble to the surface much more often. Jarod had been a handful – his intelligence confounding and astounding Dan and me almost from the very beginning. I remembered the first day that my toddler son had demanded to climb up into my lap as I read the morning paper and then demanded that I teach him to read. I tried to put the newspaper down and head for some of his baby books that had words in them – more for the parents' benefit than for the child's – and smiled as I remembered the look of angry determination on his little face as he pointed to the newspaper as what he wanted to read.

Emily had done much the same, come to think of it. I settled back against the back of the chair with my juice glass nestled in my two hands to reminisce. By the time Emily had begun to demonstrate the same intelligence as her older brother, however, we'd already lost two boys to the Centre. I taught Emily, even as I had taught Jarod – but I taught her to keep her ability a secret too. Reading became a subversive activity until she was finally old enough that being able to pick up and read anything put in front of her was more commonplace among her peers.

Dan was gone from our lives, and we moved too often to keep her in regular school; so during a stay in a university town, I picked up all kinds of books on education from the university bookstore – books that taught ME how to teach her mathematics, language arts, social science, and basic science. Luckily, she was more interested in the language arts end of things – something that she could pick up and learn on her own after a while. While her childhood was one of many moves and fleeting friendships with other children her age, I tried to make sure she didn't lack when it came to her education. I was successful enough that she succeeded in earning her high school diploma at 15 by taking the General Education exam from a county official in California, where we were staying at the time.

I missed Emily. She'd applied for and been accepted at Arizona State in Tucson three months after getting her diploma – and the day she'd climbed on the bus for Arizona as I'd stood in the bus station waiting for my bus to depart for Utah had been one of the hardest of my life. But I was proud of her – she'd grown up to be an intelligent, independent and driven woman, determined to become a journalist. By the time my wanderings had brought me back to the east coast, she'd graduated and gotten a job in Philadelphia.

About that time, Dan found me again – found me and, through me, found his daughter. Emily treated her father with respect, but I could see that his prolonged absence throughout her growing years had made her wary of trusting him. She had little to do with him until Jarod snatched her literally from the claws of the Centre and, with Dan, nursed her back to health after a nasty fall.

Dan. No! I wouldn't think of him – it still hurt too much. We'd never felt safe enough to stay together more than a night or two at a time once we had found each other again – and the decades of separation hadn't done OUR relationship any favors either. I still loved him desperately – but if I were honest with myself, I knew that I loved the memory of the man he had been at our wedding more than the man as he was when I found him. We'd both changed – more than either of us could have imagined. We argued over small things far more often than I would have wanted – and couldn't seem to recapture the spark that had been what had drawn us together to begin with. And then he was dead.

This was getting me nowhere except more depressed. I picked up my dishes, set them in the sink to rinse and headed to the living room. I took the time to change the selection of music in the CD changer from Mozart to an eclectic combination of a Beethoven symphony and Rossini opera overtures – and then settled down to polish off the end of Scheherazade's centuries-old stream of tales.

oOoOo

I jolted awake when the book in my lap slid to the floor with a thud. I looked around, a little disconcerted at the dimness of the light in the room. I must have fallen asleep almost the moment I'd read the last page of my book, for the lack of light betrayed the lateness of the afternoon. My music had kept me nicely cocooned in soothing sound, and my nap had been genuinely restful.

I leaned forward to pick the book up from the floor and then rose, a little stiff. Thankfully, the spine of the book was strong enough to have tolerated the fall, so I slipped the book back into the space it had occupied without guilt over damaging it. I turned off the music and turned on the TV to see what kind of news was happening around me – only to turn it off again when the litany of robberies, local politics and national scandals proved less than interesting. I turned off my floor lamp and made my way back to the kitchen.

I hadn't made meatloaf for a very long time – and it took a while to remember exactly what kind of spices I used to put in it. My mother had been fond of onions and sage, and a friend of mine had once told me that Worchestershire sauce could give it a slightly headier taste. I decided to combing the two and the resulting raw mixture SMELLED interesting and tasty. I did manage to remember to slip in an egg just before molding the pink mass into something that looked like a loaf in the bottom of a cake pan. That done, and my hands once more clean of raw meat, I peeled a couple of potatoes and opened a can of peas to finish the meal. If nothing else, I was eating well while in hiding – a change from the last time around.

No. That was something else I didn't like to have to think about – the many times I'd had to run after leaving absolutely everything behind. All too many times, it had meant that I'd had to starve for anywhere from two to four days while I got myself some kind of job – as a cook or waitress, or even a maid – where I could find enough to nibble on to maintain myself until my paycheck. I liked even less thinking about the many times I'd found myself in that position while still responsible for Emily. I was not proud of the kind of childhood I'd been able to provide for my daughter – only the magnificent way in which she'd managed to grow up in spite of it.

While my dinner baked and boiled, I turned on the computer to read my evening's share of email. Surprisingly enough, only a note from Sydney awaited me today:

"I appreciate your concern; although I'm frankly surprised by it, considering the tone of some of your past notes. However, you may rest assured that my many years at the Centre have taught me enough to keep me mostly out of the crosshairs – and the efforts of a talented friend have given an added level of security to this email account. To answer your question, then, the likelihood is that our exchange is not being monitored and therefore my writing to you poses no danger whatsoever. Ask your questions – I will give you whatever answers I have. Sydney"

I let go a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I wouldn't have to let go of my correspondence with the man who knew my son best – at least, not yet. I sat back a bit with a satisfied smile to consider my reply – only to be interrupted by the jangling of the telephone.

I frowned as I rose to answer. Since that call from Jarod on Sunday, I hadn't heard that phone ring once. I picked up the receiver with trepidation. "Hello?"

"Mom." It was Jarod – thank God!

"Jarod! You startled me…"

"It couldn't be helped." He sounded contrite. "I'm calling you to tell you that I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow."

I was fully alert. "Why?"

Jarod was chuckling now – a sound that made me feel just a little better. "I take it you haven't been paying attention to the weather reports, then?"

"Not really," I admitted. "Why?"

"Because there's a snowstorm set to hit that will just about close down your part of the country by tomorrow morning, that's why," he responded gently. "We don't need me stuck in a snowdrift on the turnpike – either trying to drive in or attempting to get back to Baltimore Sunday."

He had a point. "What about the shopping?" I asked him then. I'd gone through a good deal of my supply counting on that shopping trip being accomplished. I could last another week if I scrimped – but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"I called Sydney and told him to expect your call. You can give him a list of essentials to pick up for you tonight, and he can get it to you before the storm closes in. Give him enough of a list to keep you for the week – he can shop in Blue Cove for you."

I blinked. "Call him? Now??"

Jarod's voice took on a cajoling note. "If you want groceries for the week… yeah. The sooner the better, actually. From the sounds of it – and the look of the weather map, this storm is going to close things down up and down the coast for days."

I wouldn't have my son with me that weekend, though. I would be alone for another whole week before we'd get a chance to discuss my exile. The thought didn't make me happy at all. "I'm going to miss having you here," was all I said, fearful that my tone of voice would relay the rest of my feelings well.

"I'm sorry, Mom," was all Jarod said – and then the line was dead in my hands. I really WAS going to have to talk to him about his social skills one of these days…


	4. Closing The Distance

Chapter 4 – Closing the Distance

I reached out for the telephone receiver and slowly dialed the number written on the paper next to Sydney's name. The wait while the telephone on the other end of the line rang once and then a second time seemed like an eternity. And then, suddenly, there was the soft noise of the connection being made – and then a softly accented voice, a rich baritone, in my ear saying, "This is Sydney…"

I frowned for a moment, my mind twisting. That voice – the accent – it sounded familiar to me for some reason. My mouth opened and closed without making a sound. "Hello?" that rich voice asked again. "Is someone there?"

I rallied my courage. "This is Margaret Charles," I finally managed to say in a relatively clear voice.

"Oh." He actually sounded almost as nervous as I felt. "Mrs. Charles. Jarod said you would be calling." Again the familiarity danced just beyond the reaches of my memory, stymieing my attempts to pin it down. And again, I evidently was slower in response than he was expecting. "Mrs. Charles – are you all right?"

"Yes," I answered shakily. Something about that memory was disturbing, even though I couldn't bring it to mind. I shook my head, dismissing it until I had the time to think it through more carefully. "Jarod said you could do some shopping for me, since he couldn't make it?"

"Yes, he told me when he called that a shopping trip would be what was needed – and that you would have to tell me what to buy," Sydney responded very properly. "Do you have a list for me then?"

"I don't have any money to repay you," I admitted in chagrin.

"That's not an issue," he told me firmly. "Jarod made ample reimbursement available for whatever you might need back when we set up this agreement." That astonished me – Jarod had said that he'd gotten Sydney to agree to play backup to him, but not that he'd given him money… "Could you read me the list, please? If I hurry, I can shop for you and deliver your goods this evening, before the storm hits. I don't fancy driving in a blizzard…"

"OK," I answered, my brain finally kicking into gear. "Let me look at the list I gave Jarod yesterday." I moved toward the table and then sat in front of the computer. "Do you know where I am?"

"Yes," Sydney replied. "Jarod gave me very clear instructions."

I had my copy of the message I'd sent to Jarod in front of me now, and I read it off over the phone line by line. When I finished, Sydney read my list back to me. "That's it," I told him.

"Verrry good. I'll get going, and call you when I'm finished and on my way…"

"Call from the end of the drive," I informed him, "so that I know that it's you and not…"

"I understand." Something told me he understood all too well – and sympathized. It was quite possibly the most unnerving statement of the entire conversation as yet. "Very well. Until then."

God – he was going to hang up on me already… "Wait!" I called out to him.

"Yes?" .

"Does everyone at the Centre always hang up before they say a proper goodbye?"

Sydney's chuckle was a deep and heartfelt one, with more than its share of astonishment. "You've noticed that from Jarod, haven't you?" he commented, still chuckling. "Had I known that telephone etiquette would be needed, I would have taught him much better habits, believe me! As it is, I'm usually just grateful that he continues to stay in contact."

"So it bothers you too?"

"I've learned to deal with it," he admitted gently. "I consider it part of the price I pay now for his keeping in touch when he could just vanish completely."

That did it. I HAD to have a chance to speak to him directly about so much – and letting him get away immediately after delivering groceries was a good way to squander an excellent opportunity to have that discussion I'd been wanting for days now. "Will you have eaten already when you get here?" I asked suddenly, a whiff of meatloaf that smelled nearly done reminding me of the hour. "I may not be able to reimburse you myself for my groceries, but I can at least give you a meal for your time and trouble…"

I do believe I caught the man by surprise. To be honest, I had surprised myself. "You don't have to do that…" he soothed.

"Nonsense. I have a meatloaf that I was going to have for Jarod this weekend that is too much for me to eat by myself," I told him, feeling more and more certain about my decision. I just wouldn't think about whom it was that I was inviting into my parlor – literally and figuratively – I was hungry for simple human companionship, and even that of a monster was better than nothing at all. "I can boil another potato and add some more peas to the pot to make the meal complete…"

There was a long moment of silence, during which I could almost imagine the gyrations his mind was making. "Allow me to bring desert, then," Sydney bartered with me cautiously.

"All right," I agreed, and then gave a small sigh. "Thank you."

"No," he contradicted me kindly, yet firmly, "thank YOU. Until later then."

"Until later." I was ready for the sound of the connection breaking then, and was unsurprised when it came as expected.

I looked around the kitchen, gauging the presentability of the place to a first-time guest, and found that I'd done a fairly good job of keeping up with the small tasks there. What's more, after I peeled that extra potato and pulled an entire package of frozen peas to accompany the meal, I'd have enough time to do a quick once-over to the rest of the house too.

It wasn't until I was almost finished dust-mopping the hardwood around the Persian rug in the living room that it struck me just for WHOM I was tidying my house– and then I marveled at myself. I must certainly be desperate for company if I could be induced to do a fast, concerted dust-and-dust-mop job in order to impress a monster. What the Hell did I care what this man thought of me or my house-keeping skills?

I carried the dust mop through the kitchen and out into the screened back porch to shake out. Who was I fooling? This was nothing more or less than catering to my obsession with absorbing what little security I could get from superficial contact with other human beings. Leaving aside entirely the fact that I was hoping that Sydney would have the kind of answers about my son that I had genuinely despaired of ever hearing – simply having another living, breathing person in the room with me to talk to was important enough that making a good first impression was a priority.

It had taken Jarod two hours to shop for the place in the first place – I estimated that, granted a firm knowledge of where things were in the more local supermarket in Blue Cove, I had perhaps a little more than an hour from the end of my call to when my phone would ring. My impromptu house-cleaning had taken a little less an hour – and it was while I was finishing setting the table for two and then draining the potatoes that the phone began to ring. "Hello?" I answered.

"Mrs. Charles," purred that smooth and disturbingly familiar accented voice in my ear. "I believe I'm sitting at the end of your driveway. Do you wish me to knock at the front or back door?"

"Back," I answered. "It's closer to the kitchen."

"Very well," Sydney said gently. "I shall be there momentarily."

"See you in a bit," I replied – to what I realized then was a dead line. Ah well, I reasoned, he was on a cell phone – sometimes the protocol and etiquette was different with those little gadgets… And then I heard the sound of a quiet, powerful engine pulling close to the back end of my house, then suddenly being shut off, followed by the firm sound of a car door closing. I left the door to the back porch just barely closed and shivered as I watched a well-bundled man in a well-fleeced overcoat, thick-knitted winter scarf, gloves and beret climb from a dark blue luxury sedan and make his way through the mid-shin level snow to the trunk of his car. He proceeded to extract a goodly number of white plastic grocery sacks and slogged his way through the snow to the porch.

"Where do you want these?" the rich baritone voice asked as the well-bundled man stepped past me into the porch and then followed me into the warmth of the kitchen.

"Let me help you!" I exclaimed, closing the door against the freezing temperatures outside and then rushing to relieve him of the sack with the gallon jug of milk and the one that seemed filled mostly with canned goods. "On the counter," I indicated – turning my head to look at the expanse of empty counter space. With an ease that demonstrated some practice, the plastic bags were deposited one by one on the counter until the man was no longer encumbered.

"Where would you prefer I put my coat?" the accented voice asked next. As he stood, he began peeling warm driving gloves from large and graceful hands.

"There's a hook by the back door," I pointed and went to quickly distributing my week's supply of groceries in their appropriate places. "I want you to know how much I appreciate this."

"It's no trouble at all," he replied, his back to me still as he shrugged the heavy coat away and then stuffed gloves in one pocket and scarf in the other before hanging it from the hook. He finally pulled the beret from his head and smoothed the silver hair it exposed back as he rested the beret on top of the coat and turned. Then, finally, I realized why his voice had sounded so familiar – and it hit me like a fist in my stomach. My face must have mirrored my emotion, because Sydney's expression immediately became concerned. "Mrs. Charles? Are you all right?"

"It was you!" I could barely make my voice above a whisper. I was so stunned at the enormity of my revelation, my dinner and my remaining groceries were forgotten. "You came… called it an "interview"…" I shook my head in disbelief. "It was you…"

Sydney looked at me as if he hadn't the slightest idea what I was talking about – and then suddenly it seemed as if he had a revelation of his own. "Ah! I understand now…"

"You stole my son!" I finally managed to spit with my voice restored to some semblance of its regular volume.

His silvered head shook slowly, and the expression on his face became understanding and patient. "Actually, you're remembering my brother, Jacob. It was Jacob who did all of the intake on Jarod – I know, I saw the documentation."

I frowned. "Brother?" I repeated suspiciously.

"Twin brother, as a matter of fact," Sydney nodded easily. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his wallet, opened it, extracted a small somewhat used-looking photograph and handed it to me. "Jacob is on the right – I'm the one on the left."

I looked down and blinked. It was a very old black and white photograph of two young men fresh from a tennis match – two young men who looked exactly alike, and looked almost exactly as I remembered the very professional interviewer from NuGenesis looking. I peered up into the face of the much older version and could easily see the resemblance.

"So you didn't…"

"I was told nothing about how Jarod came to the Centre when he was assigned to my care – and later, when a ruse was arranged to return Jarod to his parents, we both were told that you and your husband had died in an airplane crash. I swear to you, Mrs. Charles, I didn't know that I'd been lied to about him until after Jarod escaped and I was in a position to discover the documents I told you about." He had a sorrowful look in his brown eyes. "I may have done many things I'm not proud of over the years or may have allowed things to happen that never should have taken place – I don't deny my responsibility for anything that I genuinely HAVE done or allowed. But I swear on my brother's grave that I did NOT have anything to do with the theft of your son."

I could feel the conflict in myself beginning a small throb in my right temple. The monster was in front of me, not denying the immense evil he'd done that I'd known about but offering me what he hoped was proof that the even greater evil that had started it all was not his doing. As for me, the realization that I actually wanted to believe the man's claims was almost more than I could handle. All I could do was stare at him – unable to formulate a decent response.

"Perhaps it would be better if I left you now," Sydney said when I continued to stare at him mutely. "Thank you for the invitation – but it might not be the wisest idea…"

"No." I shook myself loose of my shock. "I offered you a meal to thank you for your time and trouble on my behalf – please stay."

"Mrs. Charles," Sydney's smile at me was a sad one. "You don't have to…"

"I've already added the extra potato and extra portion of peas. I can't eat all of this by myself, and I don't want to waste it," I threw at him as the first excuse I could think of to delay his departure. "Besides, I was hoping…"

Sydney's brows – heavy and silver, had climbed his forehead in astonishment. "Yes?"

My chaotic emotions made me brutally honest. "I was hoping that maybe I could ask you some more questions in person – and I haven't had anyone to really talk to in over a week…" I shuddered at the thought of being alone again so soon. "Please. Don't go."

Monster or not, this Sydney had a very warm smile. "Very well," he acquiesced, his voice soft. "I have to admit, the meal smells very tempting – I AM hungry – and it IS cold outside."

"Sit down, please," I invited him, gesturing at the table as I went back to putting the few remaining groceries still on the counter away. Among them was a package of lemon cake that hadn't been on my list that must have been his promised desert – I could enhance it a bit with some of the vanilla ice cream I still had from Jarod's shopping trip a week ago. "Would you prefer tea or coffee?"

"Tea," was the instant answer. "Coffee would keep me awake all night."

I moved to fill the tea kettle and set it on a front burner to heat. I moved the meat loaf to a platter and sliced it, then turned the boiled potatoes and peas each into bowls. "It isn't very fancy…" I began, carrying the serving dishes to the table.

"It has been a very long time since I've had a home-cooked meal I didn't prepare myself," Sydney told me with gentle frankness after another appreciative sniff of the air. "This will be more than sufficient."

Damn it! I must have been truly attention-starved, because it was all I could do to not stand back and stare again. Sydney was proving to be in person the antithesis of the kind of monster I'd always pictured him to be. His manners were gracious, cosmopolitan and automatic, his speech refined and precise – and he had yet to shrink from anything I'd thrown at him. Despite this, I could tell that he was ill at ease – his hands as he waited for me to finish pouring the boiling water into the teapot and finally sitting down with him to eat were toying with the edge of the napkin that sat next to his plate.

Finally, however, I was finished puttering – and I gestured at the food in front of us. "Help yourself. Bon apetit."

"Merci," he smiled at me and reached for the platter of meat loaf after unfolding his frayed-edged napkin into his lap.

"You're French?" I asked to cover my nervousness.

"Belgian," he responded, taking two of the slices and slipping them onto his plate. I smiled secretly to myself – at least the man had brought an appetite to the table.

I took the platter from him so that he could reach for the potatoes. "Tell me about Jarod – please!"

The brown eyes caught and captured my gaze for a brief moment, then fell to take in the size of portion he wanted. "That's a big order," he commented slowly. "What about Jarod do you want to know?" He chuckled as he put the potatoes back in the middle of the table and then looked up at me again. "I think we've been at this point once before – just not face to face."

He was right – and I chuckled with him. "You're right." Then I sobered. "It's just that I feel sometimes that…" I sighed. "The Jarod I knew was a little boy of four – the Jarod that found me again was a man of thirty-nine. I'm having a hard time finding the boy in the man."

Sydney nodded slowly, waiting patiently for me to finish taking potatoes before handing me the bowl of peas. "You find him a stranger to you," he stated simply, startling me with the precision of his assessment.

"Yes," I admitted, thoroughly unnerved. Jarod tended to do the same thing – zero in precisely on the painful point I was trying to communicate obliquely – and I wondered if that was a skill he'd learned from his mentor.

"Jarod is a very complex individual," Sydney began, almost as if standing at a university lectern. "He was generally deprived of close social ties while a child and adolescent, so he is both hungry for intimacy and terrified of it. The rules of polite behavior were never considered "necessary" by those in authority…" I could tell that his voice had grown hard and frustrated – he'd evidently disagreed with that assessment. "…so his social skills were fairly lacking when he entered the larger world. Any manners he has acquired are either those he picked up by mimicking me or those he has found a use or need for since he escaped. Ending phone calls properly being a notable exception…" he grinned at me, and I found myself chuckling and grinning back.

He offered, and I nodded agreement, to his pouring us both some tea – and he took up his teacup and sipped appreciatively before resuming. "Jarod is curious, very bright, empathetic to an amazing degree, deeply loyal to those he feels close to, deeply bitter against those who he feels either did him harm or who take pleasure in harming others." He glanced at me quickly. "I would imagine you know a great deal of that already."

"He never talks about… what happened at the Centre… though…" I prompted when Sydney fell silent and chewed at his food thoughtfully for a long moment.

"I'm not surprised," he replied eventually. "You have to understand – we BOTH were lied to in regards to the uses the research we did was eventually put. Situations and problems were presented to us in one light – and the answers we supplied were then used… abominably." He grimaced and sipped at his tea again. "And then there were the times when Jarod was subjected to experimentation when I was either on holiday or obliged to be elsewhere by my superiors – times when I would return and literally have to nurse him back to physical or mental health before we could continue our work together..."

"What did they do to him?" I breathed, my eyes filling with tears. I had known instinctively that his experiences in the Centre were bad – but actually hearing about them was worse than I'd imagined.

Sydney shook his head at me, his eyes filled with sadness. "You really don't want to know, Mrs. Charles. The important thing is that he survived those times with his sanity and his personality intact."

I met his gaze determinedly. "Those experiences are part of what make him who he is today, though – aren't they?" Sydney looked down into his plate and nodded reluctantly. "How can I know what things to avoid mentioning if I don't know…"

He leaned his forehead into his hand with the elbow on the table for a long time – a gesture of defeat and resignation. "What is the very worst possible thing that you can imagine him going through?" he asked finally, raising his head and looking at me with brown eyes that had every last glimmer of emotion hidden.

"Oh!" I stared at him with my mouth open and my bite of meat loaf suspended, forgotten, in front of my face. My mind raced – I had imagined so many nightmarish scenarios over the years… "Did they torture him?"

"Physically, yes. Mentally, yes. Emotionally, every SIM we ran had an emotional facet to it that twisted everyday feelings into obscene parodies of emotions that could be considered a form of emotional torture. Jarod was given drugs to make his heart stop – and then revived in order to study the effects of near-death experiences on intelligence and sanity. He was confined in sensory isolation tanks for extended periods of time to study the effects of isolation on cognitive function. When I was absent for any stretch of time over forty-eight hours, Jarod was put to whatever kind of bio-medical experimentation that a sick mind could possibly concoct – and then expected to bounce right back into his normal routine of running SIMs the moment I returned."

I could no longer stop the tears from flowing down my face – and I could see that each point Sydney was making was equally painful for him to enumerate. "Stop," I breathed, begging mercy for us both.

"Did he ever tell you what a SIM was?" Sydney demanded – and I shook my head. Jarod had mentioned the term a few times, but never explained himself. "A SIM was a simulation – enhanced by providing physical and environmental props to help him climb into the mind of whomever it was that he was supposed to simulate. Preparatory sessions would have emotional and psychological information fed him via bio-feedback or simple programming methods to facilitate his assuming the persona in question – be it serial murderer, test pilot or commando. Sometimes the answer required of him was to feel and think the way the person simulated did in order to understand a past event – what was done, when, why and how. Sometimes the answer required was to think through and predict responses and consequences of actions yet to be taken. During the SIM, Jarod's persona was to be completely submerged except as objective observer and narrator to the internal thoughts and feelings of the simulated persona. I was there to provide a compass for the investigation – to ask the questions needing answers – and to keep pushing when giving those answers violated all the boundaries of even a submerged sense of humanity."

Sydney's brown eyes snapped. "Can you imagine the kind of damage that does to the native persona? Can you imagine the kind of remedial treatment needed to disassociate Jarod from the SIMmed persona when finished – all while trying to meet the schedule of output expected by others in authority that pressed for Jarod to be wrenched from one simulated persona and dumped immediately into preparation to simulate another with little or no recovery time allowed?" He seemed to catch himself and see the state that I'd managed to get myself into as I listened to him, and then he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

I was now sobbing. I'd wanted to know – God forgive me, I'd thought I needed to know – and Sydney had been right in that I really didn't need to know the particulars after all. I'd be having nightmares for weeks, just imagining again things that would fit into the hellish vision I'd just been given. But I shook my head. "No," I managed finally, forcing myself to breathe deeply and get control of myself again, putting my long-forgotten fork down and wiping at my wet cheeks. "I asked – you answered. You did nothing wrong."

We both needed a very long moment in which to compose ourselves again – time that we spent pushing our half-eaten meals away from us and using napkins from our laps to blow noses and wipe at eyes. I hadn't expected Sydney to react so negatively to the information that he carried inside him – or to have been quite so brutally illuminating in filling in the blanks about my son. If I felt as if I'd been verbally pummeled, Sydney looked as if he had received this verbal beating far too many times already – and was numb.

"There is a very good reason Jarod doesn't want you to know everything he went through," he said finally, very gently. "I honestly wouldn't question that reason very deeply, if I were you. I know I wish to God I DIDN'T know what I know – or remember the part I played."

I wiped at my face again, hearing in my mind the "guilt can be a wonderful motivator, when used properly," that Jarod had used to describe how he'd gotten Sydney to play along with keeping me safe. What I was seeing in the face of the man I'd long considered a monster wasn't just guilt, it was a soul-crushing sense of responsibility and blame that was even worse than anything Jarod might heap on him. For the very first time, I began to understand and even sympathize with the monster – not a monster anymore. He was a man who'd been made to do things – horrible things – or stand aside and allow other things to happen either through simple absence or intimidation. And none of it had been of his own desire or inspiration. He'd been a tool in the hands of the real monsters – his sin had been in being an unwitting and unprotesting tool for too long – but what I'd never paused to consider was the damage that had been done HIM in the process too. Jarod had called him a victim too – only now did I see what he meant.

I couldn't hate this man anymore. "Sydney," I asked, wondering at my temptation to reach across the table for one of those large, graceful hands to comfort him and receive comfort in return.

He turned eyes that were bleak on me. "You haven't heard enough yet?" he sighed.

"Only one more question, I promise." No – of the evil I'd heard more than enough, but there was one other thing that I needed to know.

He picked up his teacup and found the liquid in it had cooled considerably. I watched him drain the cup and then pour himself some more with hands that visibly were shaking. "Ask your question," he stated at last, holding his refilled teacup in front of his face like a miniature shield.

"Do you care about Jarod?"

The teacup slipped an inch or so, allowing very astonished brown eyes to gaze into mine. "What?"

I reached for my own teacup in defense and, as Sydney had done before me, drained it and then refilled it. "Jarod isn't sure whether your help to him now, since his escape, is a matter of not having to hide your feelings anymore or a ruse to try to get him to trust you enough to bring him back again," I explained carefully, then sipped at my tea to gather my courage. "As a mother, talking to the man who raised my son, I need to know – do you care?" The defensive teacup across the table from me slowly lowered back to the table. Sydney stared at me for a very long time, and I could see his mind racing a mile a minute. "It's a simple question," I defended myself, "a yes or no answer…"

"It isn't that simple," he countered quickly. "I understand Jarod's uncertainty – I had to deliberately encourage it for so long…" He took a long breath. "I knew that if I ever showed any favoritism or emotional bond for Jarod, the objectivity of my work with him would come under scrutiny and Jarod would most likely be reassigned to another mentor immediately – someone who might not be so vigilant at protecting him from the abuses of those in authority. So I kept my emotions completely hidden when I was with him – I could be supportive and mentoring without any obvious emotional ties forming on my part toward him for him to hang onto. Jarod…" His face grew distant as he searched his memories. "Jarod tried so hard to construct those emotional ties anyway, though – especially as an adolescent. He made me a Father's Day card one day and tried to give it to me – and I forced myself to throw it away in front of him."

I couldn't help it. The tears, so close to the surface from before, began to flow again. My poor son – no wonder he wasn't sure where he stood with the one person he knew best of all!

"He'll never know that later – once he'd been taken back to his space – I pulled the card out of the trash." He gazed at me directly and intensely. "I still have that card put away safely – where nobody will ever find it – along with several other mementos of Jarod that are meaningful only to me." The gaze intensified. "You are the only person, other than myself, who knows that."

"Thank you," I breathed – and this time I did let myself reach out to cover one of those large hands that lay so still on the table. Sydney had answered my question quite adequately. "Thank you."

Slowly his other hand moved to cover mine. "No," he said very softly, his emotions very close to the surface. "Thank YOU."

I haven't the slightest idea where the feeling came from, but I felt my heart turn over with those soft, accented words. He withdrew his hand almost immediately and pulled his plate forward again with a shaky "I need to do your meal more justice – you're a very good cook and this is too good to leave behind."

He was giving me a chance to retreat from the raw emotions of the moment – and I accepted that the moment indeed needed to be short. "I hope you'll let me give you part of this," I responded quickly as I reached for my own plate again. "I told you I wasn't going to be able to eat all this by myself – and meat loaf sandwiches can be very tasty for lunch."

"That's very kind of you," he smiled at me, and I smiled back. No, he wasn't a monster anymore.

oOoOo

As if by mutual, unspoken agreement, we tried to keep our conversation light and away from distressing topics from that moment on. I spoke proudly about Emily and her career and reputation, he spoke equally proudly of his son Nicholas – whom I eventually gathered was somewhat estranged from his father. We spoke of books that we'd each read recently – discussing the ones we'd both read as far as likes and dislikes.

Along the way, I think we both began to relax – and finally began a cautious banter that relied upon our shared generational age and apparent shared preferences in reading, music, and a general dislike of televised fare as a base. Sydney's humor was dry and surprisingly subtle, often requiring more than a moment or two for me to catch on, where mine tended to be blatant and, more often than not, unapologetically earthy. I made another pot of tea and we adjourned to the living room where, with some Mozart playing in the background, we filled another hour or so with the kind of conversation one might expect between old friends.

I also discovered that Sydney was most likely the source of that impish smirk that Jarod displayed every once in a while – as was he the probable progenitor of several of the customary gestures and mannerisms that I'd come to associate with my son. When I pointed that fact out, I swear I saw the man blush slightly just before taking the time to point out to me some facets of my own personality that Jarod had obviously inherited. Sydney was an astute observer – and some of his points made ME blush too.

But all too soon, our time was finished, and leftovers had been packed for storage and/or transport. The light outside the kitchen window had long since faded away, and I could hear the sound of the wind beginning to stir the trees outside as a prelude to the storm that had been predicted. Sydney had let me help him back into his heavy overcoat, and now stood looking down at me with an odd, warm look on his face.

"You know," he began cautiously, "I was more than a little nervous about coming out here this evening…"

"No more nervous than I," I confirmed with a nod. "I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting myself in for."

Sydney looked as if he was getting ready to pull scarf and gloves from his pockets, and then thought better of it. He stepped closer and took one of my hands in his. "When it comes to Jarod, I always thought… hoped… wanted to believe… that by making sure that he didn't bond tightly with me, he'd be able to bond with his real parents someday. Once I found out you and your husband weren't dead – I was certain that I'd been right. I'm glad Jarod now has you in his life – and I'm sorry about the death of your husband."

Yes, it was time to lay cards on the table – cards that I only now understood as having been dealt to me. "I've long wondered what kind of man raised my son all those years in that horrible place," I told him in as gentle and soft a voice as I could so as not to tweak at the horrible shame I now knew he carried about with him. "But now I don't have to wonder anymore. I'm glad you were the one Jarod spent those years with – and I want to thank you for doing such a good job of raising my son for me."

I'd surprised him – and the tear that slowly found its way to his cheek startled me almost as much. "Mrs. Charles…"

"My friends call me Peg," I corrected him quickly.

"Very well, Peg…" he accepted the correction with a slight bow, "…I don't deserve your thanks – I don't deserve anything but anger and accusation from you OR Jarod…"

"No, Sydney." I closed my hand on the one of his that had been holding on to mine so that the pressure that kept us connected was as much me as him. "I think we all have had our heartaches – and while I will forever resent the fact that you had my son when he was kept away from me, I don't resent YOU anymore." It was true. I resented the lost time, but I finally knew that the man who'd been the beneficiary of that time to be gracious, gentle, intelligent, witty – and most of all, anything but a monster. I would save my venom for those who deserved it – the men who had orchestrated my son's abduction and perpetual incarceration and who kept hounding him AND me.

A second tear dropped on the opposite cheek. "You are an incredible – and very beautiful – woman, Peg Charles. I wish our meeting could have come about under more happy circumstances – because I believe it would be an honor to have the opportunity to know you better." His gaze was intense.

I blushed. What I wouldn't have given to have the freedom to spend more time with this man without fear of discovery! "We still have email…" I suggested finally when, as the emotions drifted toward being too raw again, Sydney gently freed his hand from mine and pulled out his scarf and began to wrap his face protectively.

"That we do," he agreed, pulling his gloves from the other pocket. "And you have my cell phone number," he reminded me gently.

"Yes, I do." What was more, I wouldn't be afraid of using it – or at least, I wouldn't be afraid of speaking to the man on the other end of the line anymore. But we both knew that phone conversations would be dangerous. "If I need your help again…"

"Don't ever hesitate to call," he finished for me, then added, "…but don't feel you have to wait until then. Thank you again for a delicious meal and a delightful evening, Peg."

I don't know what made me do it, but I stepped close and threw my arms around his neck to hug him close. "Thank you for coming," I said into the knit scarf near an ear.

His arms came up to hold me back and, for a short time, we clung to each other tightly. We had come so far so fast, it was hard to let go and resume being distant strangers. I didn't know if it was so with Sydney, but I knew that this evening had changed me in small ways I wouldn't even begin to appreciate for a while.

oOoOo

"So… Did Sydney get you your groceries?" Jarod asked after we'd exchanged our usual greetings. Outside the kitchen window, the storm that had been promised was howling, making the late morning light diffuse.

I picked at my piece of lemon cake – knowing that half of the remains had gone home with Sydney. "Yes, I'm very well-stocked for the week," I replied quietly.

"Are you… you didn't argue with Sydney, did you?" Jarod asked, obviously curious and concerned that his arrangements hadn't been bollixed by the need for contact after all. "I mean, I know how you feel about Sydney and…"

"No, sweetheart, we didn't argue. I even fed him dinner to say thank you for coming out on such a cold night and shopping for me," I told him calmly.

"Really!" I think I'd surprised Jarod with that statement about as much as I had with my shortened hair. "He stayed for dinner?"

"He did me a favor – and I didn't have money to pay him for his time," I explained with a chuckle. "People do that when others do them favors, Jarod…"

"I know that," Jarod sighed in exasperation when I wasn't satisfying his curiosity in the way he was hoping. "It's just that… I mean… What did you talk about?"

"You," I answered with total honesty. "Some of the time, anyway."

Jarod sounded very guarded all of a sudden. "Me, huh?"

"Of course," I affirmed. "You are the person we have in common, Jarod – the topic on which we both could speak in order to start an acquaintanceship." I took pity on him then. "I asked him some questions – questions that I don't think you would want to answer – and found out some of the things I needed to know."

"About me?"

"Yes, and about the Centre."

"Mom…"

"I'm not going to apologize, Jarod," I told him firmly. "When I lost you, you were four years old. When I found you again, you were already long past being a grown man. Sydney could help me understand you better – and I took advantage of the opportunity to talk to the one person who probably knows you better than anybody else does. Besides…" I took another bit of the lemon cake. "…can't I spend a little time getting to know one of your old friends a little better?"

"I don't know that I'd call Sydney a friend, Mom," Jarod retorted, the bitterness in his voice obvious.

"All right," I allowed, "your surrogate father then."

"What the Hell?" he blurted, sounding genuinely angry now. "What did he tell you?"

"Enough, Jarod," I replied gently, not letting his emotions rock my own. "I understand some of your reactions better now – and that's what's important."

"Damn it!" Jarod sputtered, "I asked him not to tell you…"

"Jarod, Jarod, sweetheart…" I put on my best soothing mother voice. "What Sydney did or didn't tell me is between me and Sydney. He brought me the groceries, as you asked him to – I fed him a meal that I'd intended to feed you. We had a long and very interesting discussion on a number of topics – you being only one of them. And really…" I smiled to myself. "…that's all you need to know. I seriously doubt that Sydney betrayed anything you specifically asked him not to. He doesn't seem to be the sort who would make a promise and then not keep it."

"He gave me his word," Jarod had evidently calmed down slightly, "and I know that Sydney NEVER breaks his word."

"Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "No," he admitted so very reluctantly, "I suppose not."

"So…" I prompted, determined to move on to a lighter topic, "tell me about your Pretend. We didn't get a chance to talk like we would have if you were here – so I want to know everything."

"Everything, Mom?" My move had worked, his voice sounded lighter.

"Details, Jarod. I'm an interested second party. So spill!"

oOoOo

By Monday morning, the storm had blown itself out to sea – leaving behind a thick blanket of snow completely hiding the evidence of any vehicle having been in my yard recently. I'd finished two more mystery books and worked my way through several of the more modern vocal CDs while I did a more thorough cleaning of the house on Sunday. I also spent a great deal of time writing back and forth to JD – and letting Jarod know that when I was finally released from my snowy exile in Delaware, I wanted to be given enough of a new identity that I could settle down with JD and attempt to give this unintended son of mine a little emotional support and stability. I was done running – I wanted a life back.

I made my coffee and, as was my habit, turned on the computer while waiting for the percolator to finish the job. I had three emails that morning, and I waited until after I had toasted myself some toast, soft-boiled myself an egg and poured myself a fresh cup of coffee to open them.

Emily demanded to know how well I had weathered the storm – and promised that she was taking some time off that next weekend so that she could come down and spend time with me here. After I read Jarod's next note, I wrote Emily back and explained that Jarod's Pretend seemed to be resolving itself faster than he'd anticipated – and that when she got here, there could possibly be the three of us. I then wrote Jarod and let him know the good news – that the three of us might actually get to spend some time together as family at long last.

Sydney's note I saved for last. When I opened it, I gasped and almost spilled my coffee into my laptop's keyboard – for in the place of the text was a beautiful picture of a red rose. In small letters at the bottom was written: "Peg - Enjoyed the meat loaf all weekend long and still have enough for sandwich for lunch today. Hoping you stayed safe and warm during the storm. Let me know the next time you want me to go shopping. Sydney."

I hit reply. "Sydney – Glad you enjoyed the meat loaf, because my share is almost all gone too now. Thanks for helping me eat it. Jarod wasn't too happy when I told him I'd spoken with you about him – hope he doesn't give you too much of a bad time. And you can shop for me anytime – if you'll stay for supper again afterwards. Peg." I hit send – and sat back to nurse my coffee. I was writing to a friend, not a monster. A friend.

What a difference a week had made.

By evening, Jarod had written back promising to look into reasonable alternatives for a new and more permanent identity and locale for me and JD – but warning that making the arrangements to actually take up such a life might take a while. JD had written again, sounding more and more despondent about himself and his life. I turned around and wrote to Ethan again, hoping that putting a bug in the brother's ear might result in some more immediate help on that front.

Sydney had replied – as I had hoped he would. "Peg – Yes, I got a rather urgent call from Jarod not long after you spoke to him. I assured him that I'd not said a word about matters he'd asked me to promise to keep to myself – but I also let him know that I felt you had a right to know virtually anything you wanted within reason. As you say, he's not pleased we're actually communicating. In a way, you and I are opposite "sides" of his life, finally in contact in a way completely outside his control – it's bound to make him nervous. Remember, he's both curious about and terrified of intimacy – and that includes the relationships of those important to him. You and I speaking without his knowledge or permission – despite the fact that it was he himself who made our face to face discussion possible – threatens the stability of his relationship with each of us in his mind. Sorry to sound so much like a shrink. Sydney."

I laughed and hit the reply button. "Sydney – You ARE a shrink, or haven't you noticed those funny letters after your name on your desk nameplate? Peg."

By morning I had my response: "Peg – You're right – there IS a collection of incomprehensible letters on my nameplate! How could I have missed them? Actually, I have a bad habit of pontificating about everything I see from a psychiatric point of view, mostly because I have so few opportunities to talk about anything else. I would hope that you and I could find other avenues of discussion eventually to help me break that habit. Sydney."

There it was again, that vague feeling of something within that I hadn't felt in a very long time – along with the sudden realization that my communications with Sydney had begun to ease a huge and empty hole in my life left when Dan died.

Perhaps Jarod had reason to feel threatened after all…


	5. Extreme Circumstances

Chapter 5 – Extreme Circumstances

I don't know how long the phone had been ringing – I'd only gradually become aware that the bells I was hearing in my dream didn't belong there. I stumbled from my bed and down the vaguely unfamiliar stairs in the dark and made my way to the kitchen. My hand had to swat at the wall a couple of times before finding the light switch – and then I picked up the receiver with a big yawn. My "Hello?" was only barely intelligible, I'm sure.

"Peg! Wake up!"

I blinked, and then I was rousing more fully. The voice on the other end of the line wasn't Jarod's, as I'd expected, but Sydney's. I squinted at the round clock on the wall above the kitchen window. "Sydney?" I asked slowly, awake but still not processing information as quickly as normal. "Do you know what time it i…"

"Forget that and listen to me verrrrry carefully." Sydney's voice sounded tight – his accent was a little thicker and a little coarser than normal. "I've been called back into the Centre – and informed that we're going on a little local raid while it's still dark out. Miss Parker received word that Jarod has been seen in the vicinity – and the plan is to take the inhabitants of the place he's suspected of being by surprise… a small cottage by the ocean not far from here…"

"But he's gone," I told him with another half-yawn. "He's not here."

"But you ARE there," Sydney stated bluntly, taking my breath away and bringing me finally fully and very clearly awake.

"Oh my God! Are you telling me the Centre is coming HERE?" I gasped, my heart suddenly pounding in my throat. "For ME??"

"I can't be certain – but I don't dare assume otherwise. So I want you to listen to me and do exactly as I tell you – do you understand?"

My mind was racing. They were coming HERE – and they'd finally find me! All of these years of outsmarting or simply out-running the Centre were about to come crashing down around me. I couldn't think – couldn't… "Peg!" I heard vaguely in my ear again – and Sydney was obviously raising his voice now. "PEG!"

"Yes," I practically sobbed into the phone. "What am I going to do?"

"Listen to me! Pack the computer and your purse. Turn off all the lights – and find yourself a small dark hole there in the house to hide in. A box – a wardrobe…"

"They'll find me…" My voice had gone up an octave – I was on the ragged edge of panic.

"LISTEN TO ME. Pack the computer and your purse. Take them with you – down to the basement, up to the attic… SOMEwhere where you can hide yourself and them. Let the house look as if the occupant is just out for the evening…"

"I could leave – go to the shed…"

"NO!" Sydney was shouting at me now. "If you leave the house, they'll see your tracks in the snow and find you. You have to stay IN the house and find a place to hide there. Now do as I say!"

I was starting to shake, but it was obvious that Sydney's instructions were the only thing that could possibly save me. "I will," I managed finally.

"I'll come for you as soon as I'm certain the coast is clear – and we'll move you somewhere safer," he told me, his voice moving into a calmer, more soothing tone that did wonders to my near-panic attack. "Take a deep breath…" He waited, and I finally obliged him. "Good. Now pack the computer and grab your purse. You have about a half hour to get hidden. Go."

The line fell dead against my ear, and I whimpered. His voice had been a lifeline of sanity and hope – and now it was gone. I put the receiver back on the cradle with hands shaking so hard they almost dropped it, and then I turned to the kitchen table. The black canvas tote that Jarod had bought to hold the computer and its attachments was on one of the unused kitchen chairs, and I threw the device, its wires and printer into the various velcroed compartments and then zipped it closed, not really caring if everything had fit together properly. I looked about the kitchen and then, as an afterthought, pulled the little paper with Sydney's and Jarod's phone numbers out from beneath the phone and slipped it into one of the computer case pockets. My purse was on the counter near the phone – I grabbed that too.

But where was I going to hide?

The basement was no option – it was nothing but a hole in the ground with very little furnishing it in which or behind which to hide myself. If the Centre descended on the cottage, the closets in the bedrooms would no doubt be opened and pawed through as well.

That left only one alternative – the storage room at the top of the stairs. It was clogged to almost impassible with boxes, trunks and old furniture and detritus – and I thought I'd seen a wardrobe over the top of the mess toward the back of the room. I'd have to find my way to it in the dark, however – if I turned on the light, I'd be discovered if for no other reason than the Centre people would tear the room apart piece by piece to see why the light was burning.

I carefully extinguished all the lights I'd lit on the way downstairs and headed back up again. I first went to my bedroom and made the bed I'd been sleeping in just a few minutes before – there was no reason to give any suspicion that someone had been sleeping in the bed in the very recent past. Then I slipped through the door to the storage room and carefully began to worm my way toward the back. My eyes fell on a large dark box – a trunk – sitting next to the wardrobe. In the dim moonlight that came in through the dirty and cobwebbed window, I could see it had a few boxes piled on top of it but would be big enough to hold me and my precious belongings, IF it could be emptied enough to make room.

I opened the wardrobe and felt around, found it filled with old, empty hangers, and then opened the trunk. The lid wouldn't stay open from the bulk and weight of the boxes piled on top of it, but by feeling around through the opening I could tell it was full of old clothes. I put the computer and purse on the floor for the moment and began pulling out and then hanging up the clothing bit by bit to make room for myself. Just about the time I began to hear the sound of powerful engines nearing the cottage, I closed the wardrobe, moved my computer and purse into the trunk, climbed in myself and let the lid fall closed over me – still with the lighter boxes piled on top of the trunk lid. In the dark I began digging my way through and beneath the stale old clothes so I could be as close to the bottom as I could get and still breathe while being completely hidden. I could only hope that, if the trunk were opened, the mess I'd made wouldn't give me away.

My heart once more leapt into my throat when I heard the loud crash of someone bursting through one of the doors – and I huddled as I could easily make out several sets of footsteps stomping up the stairs and shuffling through the other rooms both upstairs and downstairs. The door of the storage room had a distinctive creak that sounded briefly before crashing into one of the boxes that crowded the room – and then sounded again as the door was pulled closed again.

"Make certain he's not here," I heard a somewhat familiar voice order with a tone of frustration. I'd never thought I'd hear Catherine Jamison Parker sound so hard or impatient.

"You know, Miss Parker, this just doesn't look like the normal lair Jarod would leave," another voice sounded – and sounded as if it were just outside the storage room door. I held my breath. My God! That was SYDNEY'S voice!

"What do you mean, Freud?"

"Look around you. The place is immaculate – there are no visible signs of Jarod's normal fixation on any particular theme or career choice. And, most significantly, I've seen no sign of any notebooks. If this were truly one of Jarod's lairs, there would be at least one red notebook." Sydney sounded tired and, oddly enough, a little out of sorts – as if he resented being pulled out of bed to search an empty house. "There is absolutely nothing here to support the claim that Jarod was staying here – or had ever even visited the place."

"Nothing, Miss Parker," sounded another voice, quite deferential-sounding. "We've searched the basement and the rest of the house - and there's no sign that anybody left the house recently either. No tracks in the snow other than ours."

"I'm going to kill that bastard Lyle," the Catherine-like voice hissed lethally. "If he thinks that getting us all up and bothered at four goddamned o'clock in the bloody morning is cute – I'LL give him cute!" The storage room door creaked again. "What's in here?"

"Nothing, Miss Parker," another deferential voice replied. "Looks like storage. There's no way anybody could get through that mess…"

"Nonsense. Make sure nobody's hiding behind something back there," the Catherine voice ordered brusquely.

I held my breath and put my hand over my mouth as I could hear boxes shifting all around me. My trunk got jerked slightly – and then I could hear the boxes on top of it getting tossed aside. I felt rather than saw the top get thrown back – and then there was some poking and prodding of the clothing on top of me. I closed my eyes and bit my lip so hard I could taste the blood to keep from screaming my terror and erupting from the trunk in a panic. It seemed to take forever, but then the top slammed shut on the trunk again. "Not a thing, Miss Parker," was the eventually announcement, and I could hear at least one heavy person pushing through the boxes away from my trunk once more. I didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief yet, for fear that it would come out as a whimper that would lead them to me still.

"Let's get the Hell outta here before whoever belongs here calls the police," the Catherine voice ordered now, very obviously furious. "Syd, you want me to drop you at your house?"

"No, thank you, Miss Parker – my car's already at the Centre. I'd need some form of transportation to get to work again at the proper time…"

"Screw that. I'm giving you and the rest of the team the day off – and I'll be the one clearing it with Nosferatu and our favorite Ted Bundy before taking the rest of the day off myself. It's one thing to call us out to go traipsing all over the countryside and miss Jarod by minutes or hours and come home with another box of meaningless crap – it's another entirely to pull us all from our warm beds at the most ungodly hour to go on a wild goose chase to a place Jarod's never been in before. C'mon, boys – we're done here."

"At least whoever DOES live here wasn't here…"

"Yeah, the last thing Miss Parker needs is to have to deal with the Blue Cove PD again," a conspiratorially lowered male voice confided. "I hear last time she tangled with them, sparks flew…"

"Tom! Vince! Get your asses down here!"

I could hear those heavy footsteps descending the stairs and slowly but surely my house was quieting down. Eventually I heard the engines outside start up again – and then gradually fade as the vehicles moved away. Still, I stayed in my trunk, knowing myself safe as long as I didn't move, for a very long time.

This had been close – closer, even, than the narrow escape Jarod had managed for me from Oakridge just a while ago. Too close. I couldn't stop shaking. Even in the back pocket of the Centre, there was no certainty that the attention of an organization that Jarod considered "criminally myopic" couldn't be drawn dangerously near.

I was in a no-win situation: I couldn't stay here, and I had nowhere else to go.

oOoOo

I don't know how long I stayed in that stuffy, suffocating trunk, but it took real intestinal fortitude to finally push back up through the clothing I'd piled on top of myself and push the lid up. Early morning light was already beginning to come through the window as I struggled to free myself from the trunk and then move all the old clothing inside aside so that I could retrieve my precious computer and purse. I looked around me, and the boxes that had been stacked together relatively neatly were now pushed about randomly and haphazardly, as if to make room for large men to move more easily through the room. The big wardrobe was pulled away from the wall slightly and one of the doors was ajar. They had searched more thoroughly than I'd thought.

I was lucky – damned lucky. This time.

Shaking again, I wormed my way through the mess and went to my own room. There the closet door was standing open, as were several of my drawers. I sat down on the edge of the bed weakly, feeling violated and once more on the ragged edge of a panic attack I couldn't afford. I was trapped – I had no vehicle in which to flee, no clothing sufficient to the task of walking out of this 50's-era prison that had been intended as a safe house into the frozen hell outside – and I had to THINK. Once more, it took time and several attempts to pull myself together again before I could stand up again and go about the business of getting dressed. I found my suitcase where I'd put it at the bottom of my closet and began packing too. One way or the other, I wasn't going to stay here any longer – even if I had to walk away, and even if I ended up frozen to death in a snow bank somewhere.

Eventually I moved like a phantom through the house, not daring touch a light switch in case someone from the Centre had been left behind to watch the house for activity. I avoided moving anywhere near a window as I crept down the stairs and looked about as I made my way to my kitchen. Everything was askew or slightly out of place – but only to a point that the place looked cluttered, disorganized. They hadn't trashed the place.

I put my belongings – the things I would never again go anywhere without, my purse and now my computer – on the kitchen table, left the suitcase on the floor nearby and began making myself some coffee with hands that had yet to stop shaking.

I jumped hard and let out a small scream when the telephone began to ring. I backed away from it until my backside was pressed against the refrigerator door, hoping maybe it would just… stop… and then my mind tried to start working again. Sydney had said he would be coming back for me – to take me somewhere safer. To do that, he'd be calling to let me know that either he was at the end of my driveway again or to arrange for a time for me to be ready. Maybe this was Sydney, trying to fulfill his promise. Then again, maybe it was Jarod, having just clued in to the fact his "safe" house had been raided by the Centre and desperate to find out if I were OK or even still here. And then yet again, maybe it was the Centre, suspicious to see if anybody actually HAD been in the house.

Oh God! What was I supposed to do?

The phone rang and rang – and then… stopped. I was just about to breath a sigh of relief and had turned to take a mug down from the cupboard to pour myself some coffee when it started ringing again – making me jump and scream again, dropping the mug on the floor. Someone was desperate to reach the occupant of the house – and reason, what little I had left, told me that the Centre itself wouldn't be calling THIS often. I breathed a small prayer that I wasn't signing my own death warrant and picked up the receiver – without saying a word.

"Peg? Peg!"

I sagged into one of the kitchen chairs in relief. It was a fairly desperate-sounding Sydney. "I'm here," I finally managed, my voice very soft and shaky with sobs I could only barely repress.

"Are you all right?" the accented voice demanded.

"Get me out of here!" I sobbed at him.

"I'm at the end of the driveway – I had to wait to make sure they didn't leave anyone to watch the place…" 

"Sydney, please!" I clung to the phone.

"I'm almost there, Peg – don't worry." His voice had calmed and gave me an anchor to cling to emotionally. "I'm almost to your back door now. Come on – let's go."

I dropped the phone into its cradle the moment I heard the quiet engine nearing the back door. I barely remembered to turn the stove off under the percolator in my haste to snatch up suitcase, purse and computer, dash out the back door and put this snow-bound trap behind me. My coat was flapping open, and I didn't have boots on over the top of my sneakers so the snow quickly filled the edges of my shoes – but I didn't care as I rushed toward the dark blue sedan. The front passenger door opened as I neared, and I practically fell into the warmth of the car.

"Is that everything?" Sydney asked, helping me shift my suitcase between the comfortable leather seats to the floorboard behind me and then settled the computer case between the front seats.

All I could do was shiver and nod and cling to my purse tightly on my lap.

Sydney reached across me and pulled the seat belt into place and fastened it with a click before wasting no time in putting the car in gear. The vehicles that had been there before him had crushed down the snow in the drive, so turning around without leaving detectable traces was no problem. Soon, he had steered the car down the bumpy drive to the narrow lane and was driving at a fairly fast pace away – away from the Centre facility, away from that little death-trap of a cottage. I leaned back into the cushions of my seat and closed my eyes – my heart still pounding in my chest as if I'd run a race.

The ride was a silent one – as if my rescuer knew that I wasn't in the mood for small talk just to settle rattled nerves. Frankly, I was grateful that Sydney didn't try to play shrink for me either – because I was only barely hanging onto what little was left of my composure. I wanted a quiet, safe, dark place in which to let go and be hysterical all by myself, not make a spectacle of myself in front of a virtual stranger. I had TOLD Jarod that I didn't want to stay so close to the Centre! I'd TOLD him – and look what had almost happened!!

I had no idea where we were going – and when the car made a sharp turn and then went over a bump, I opened my eyes to see us heading into the open maw of a garage. Sydney brought his car to a smooth stop and reached up to press again on a box-like device that started a growling around the car, indicating a garage door grinding closed. I was numb and unmoving, unable to make my mind even begin to function – and he unsnapped the seat belt for me again and took charge of the laptop before slipping from behind the steering wheel. Then he was at my door, opening it and, when I still couldn't bring myself to move, gently grasping both of my arms and twisting me until he could pull me to my feet.

With a hand firmly beneath an elbow, he steered my reluctant steps through the dark wooden door into a sunny and open kitchen – and then through that and into a dining room and then past an arch and into a living room. "Here," he said finally, pulling me to one of two overstuffed leather chairs that flanked the rather large stonework hearth, "Sit down."

His voice was gentle but filled with authority, and I obeyed him without a single glance or word. He placed my computer case against the side of the chair at my feet and then stepped away from me for a moment – and then was back and kneeling beside my chair. I felt the press of a glass against my lips. "Take a good sip," he directed firmly, and then used his free hand to cradle the back of my head to tip it back a bit when I shook my head in refusal. "Come on, Peg – work with me."

I let the liquid finally through my teeth, and then sputtered. It was whiskey – biting, sharp. "Wait…"

"Another sip," he insisted, tipping the glass back against my lips again. "Drink."

Ready for it now, I sipped at the liquor – although Sydney's ministrations meant that I ended up with more than I'd intended. This was the good stuff – the kind of expensive whiskey I usually could neither afford nor allow myself to desire. The alcohol burned all the way down my throat and warmed my very empty, slightly nauseated stomach. I was struggling my way out of my stupor, and I tried to put up a hand to prevent him from tipping the glass into my mouth again. "No…"

"One more, Peg – one more swallow." He was both cajoling and pleading, and I finally let him tip the glass against my lips again and swallowed the whiskey more carefully, letting it wash around my mouth a bit first to kill the bite. He withdrew the glass and let go of my head as he rose and placed the glass on the small table to my right. "Better?"

I was in control of myself now enough to the point that I could at least nod at him. I felt him bend and remove my shoes – and then leave me for a moment again. I shivered – my feet were wet from the melted snow that had gotten into my shoes as I'd run across the yard to the car, and the chill seemed to spread from them all the way up through my entire body. My heart was no longer beating as if trying to burst from my chest, but it was still pounding in my ears. Then Sydney was back – with a fluffy towel in which he wrapped first one foot and then the other to dry them, and then some kind of thick stockings that made me feel instantly warmer. His hands rubbing the outside of the stocking helped spread that warmth.

I couldn't let myself relax – I had to stay on guard for the next time I heard the sound of a car engine. I leaned back in the chair away from Sydney, my hands clasping the arms of the chair tightly – no doubt to the point of white knuckles. "Here," I heard him say again, and once more felt the glass at my lips. "It will warm you and relax you – drink, Peg."

This time I took the glass from him and took a tiny sip willingly. I could already begin to feel the warm glow of the liquor running through my system – but I didn't want any more. I had always been a cheap drunk – one drink being all I needed to get a very healthy buzz – and right now, I needed my senses keen – alert…

"Where are we?" I asked when I finally felt as if my voice weren't going to sound childish and weepy – and then grimaced when I still sounded like a whining three year old.

"My home," Sydney replied quietly, taking the glass from my fingers when he evidently figured out that I wasn't going to have any more of the whiskey on my own. "There is no reason for anyone to suspect your presence here – and Jarod knows where I live when the time comes for him to take you away again."

"Your…?" I blinked and tried to focus my vision. I was in a room that was decidedly masculine in décor – oak and brass accents on furniture and fixtures, and walls covered floor to ceiling with book shelves. But it was too much. I closed my eyes again. I wanted to withdraw – to pull away from everything for a while. I couldn't take living on the edge like this anymore – it was killing me.

"That's right," Sydney's voice soothed at me. "Close your eyes and rest for a while." I felt something warm settle about my shoulders and over my entire body – as if I'd been covered over with a blanket. "You're safe here, my dear. The Centre would never dream of looking for you here. Sleep for a while – it will do you good."

At this point, I didn't care if the Centre were pounding down the doors to get at me. The whiskey he'd given me had hit me very hard – not surprising, considering that I was still functioning on a very empty stomach and hadn't had anything to drink in a very long time to build up what little tolerance I could get to the alcohol. All I wanted to do was crawl into a warm, safe, dark hole and stay there for a good long time. I thought I might have felt a gentle touch, smoothing my hair back out of my face – but I had neither the ambition nor the energy to see if I was right.

oOoOo

I jerked awake – very quickly and very fully awake – after dreaming of musty clothing and telephones ringing and car engines. My heart was pounding, and I looked around me in distress. I wasn't where I was supposed to be – neither in that suffocating little trunk nor the cottage bedroom – I was upright in a comfortable leather chair, in a comfortable and quiet room that I didn't remember ever seeing before. I shifted and then looked down to find myself covered with an unfamiliar but obviously hand-crafted afghan from shoulders to feet – feet which were propped up on a matching leather footstool with the blanket tucked in carefully about them. What was more, I felt as if I'd been dragged through seven kinds of Hell – my head ached miserably and I seriously doubted that I'd gotten any true rest. And my mouth tasted terrible.

"Awake at last," sounded an accented voice from across the room – and I looked up sharply to see Sydney carrying a pair of reading glasses and what looked to be a cup of coffee into the room. "Do you feel any better?"

"Sydney?" I was confused – and it took my mind a little while to kick back into gear and remember the desperate morning I'd just been through – my nose wrinkling as I was again assailed by the stench of old, unused clothing. "Where…? Wait…" I could remember running through the snow. "I'm… I'm at your place?"

"Verrrry good," he smiled at me. "You were shocky enough when you decided to start your nap that I wasn't certain you'd remember where you were when you woke up again. I've been sitting here, waiting for you to awaken, so that you wouldn't awaken alone and completely disoriented." He gazed at me sympathetically. "You do remember how you got here, don't you?"

I really didn't want to remember those horrifying moments, being stuck in that suffocating trunk, being shoved about, having the clothing above me poked and prodded – and I shuddered at what little of that I did allow myself to remember. "How long have I been asleep?" I asked instead.

He tipped his wrist to look at his watch. "About two hours." He put his glasses and coffee cup on a small table next to the matching overstuffed chair across the hearth from mine. "I'd imagine you're fairly hungry by now. You haven't eaten all day – I have bagels and cream cheese – maybe with a few fig preserves…" I began to shake my head, but my host wasn't taking no for an answer. "Nonsense. You'll feel much better with some food in your stomach. I have coffee, or I can fix some tea for you, if you'd prefer…"

I shifted in my chair nervously. "Sydney – thank you – but I have to get away from here…" My eyes kept heading to the window in a vain attempt to see the cars coming for me before I could hear them.

"In good time, I promise," he nodded agreement, "but in the meanwhile, you're to make yourself completely at home here. AND you'll eat…"

"I'm not hungry," I told him petulantly, sitting up in the chair and letting the afghan fall from my shoulders. "I'm scared and I want to get the Hell away from the Centre." I hadn't realized how warm the afghan had been, and I shivered at its loss.

"Peg…" He was standing over me now. "Look, while you were asleep I called Jarod and told him what happened – he told me he had just a few things to wrap up in his latest Pretend, and then he'd be here to pick you up and… how did he put it?… ah, yes…" He sighed and continued, obviously quoting, ""…see about giving you the life you asked for", whatever that means." He shook his head at me. "If everything goes according to plan, he'll be here tomorrow evening. Until then, you are a guest in my home – which is about the safest place you can be at the moment."

"But my being here puts you in danger," I complained bitterly. He'd done so much for me already – I couldn't continue to place him at risk.

"Not really," Sydney shook his head. "I'm in no more danger now, with you in my house, than I am standing in my kitchen talking to Jarod on the phone. I've survived at the Centre for a very long time knowing exactly when the danger is coming too close to tolerate. Besides, there are a few things in this world that I reserve the right to do or not do – and this is one of them. Now…" He put a smile on his face again. "Do you want to come to the kitchen and eat, or shall I bring your bagel to you here?"

I glared up at him. "You're a very stubborn man, you know that?"

I then gaped as Sydney gave me a very continental bow. "Madame Pot, I am Monsieur Kettle – at your service. And now that we are through the formal introductions…" He looked down at me. "Kitchen or here?" he asked again.

I couldn't help it – I chuckled. Oddly, the small bit of humor was comforting. "You're also impossible."

He gave a very distinctive shrug at that. "I've been told that a good many times too – for all the good it's done. You're still avoiding the question at hand…"

"Kitchen," I stated finally, pushing the afghan aside and folding it over the arm of the chair. "But I'm going to have to at least brush my teeth – my mouth tastes like the bottom floor of an outhouse." I grimaced my distaste.

I saw the expressive face grimace at my verbal description as well, and then he was extending a hand down to me to help me out of the chair. "I took the liberty of putting your suitcase in my guest room while you were sleeping – allow me to show you where that and the bathroom are located. I'll make you some coffee and bagels while you freshen up."

I settled my hand in his and found the clasp warm and strong. He didn't pull hard on me, but rather made himself a firm anchor against which I was able pull to extricate myself from the chair. He didn't exactly let go of my hand immediately after I was on my feet either, but gazed at me with intense brown eyes for a long moment before finally dropping his hand to his side. "This way," he said quickly and turned to lead me from the warm living room toward the stairs at the very front of the house.

My emotions were careening all over the place. What was going on here? Did I just catch Sydney subtly flirting with me? And what was I doing, leaving my hand in his possession the way I did – encouraging him? This was ridiculous! I was less than four hours from being practically snared and imprisoned by the Centre itself – with Sydney as a witness to my capture. I knew that our email exchange had stayed friendly banter with a subtle subtext of mutual caring and concern for Jarod and each other as being important to Jarod's wellbeing – but when had it grown past that to the point that in-person exchanges had emotionally charged subtext to them too now that had nothing to do with Jarod at all?

I decided to ponder my situation from the safety of a warm shower stall – the one fixture that the little 50's Era cottage had been missing, as far as I was concerned. I let the hot water beat down on me and warm my body, while exactly what was going on in my head only managed to confuse me further. There was only one thing that I knew for certain – I was much more vulnerable now, here, than I'd been in a very long time. Sydney had stepped into my life in a rather substantial manner and become a sort of white knight – the kind of male companionship and assistance I'd been missing for a very long time. It would be very easy to slip into a needful dependence on him for the time I'd be evidently spending in his company until Jarod retrieved me – very easy, very nice, and very unfair to the both of us.

I'd have to watch my step with him very carefully. With all that was going on in my head and my heart, I didn't need to make a fool of myself emotionally as well.

oOoOo

I dressed slowly and combed my now-long hair simply back straight, and replaced the warm stocking on my feet before coming back down the stairs. I was more aware of my surroundings as I came down into the main part of the house. Sydney's home was tastefully furnished with oak and brass throughout – the banister of his stairs a highly polished oak with brass inlay strip. I was finally curious enough to want to stop and look into the living room – and then wander over to the stonework mantle over the hearth to look at the framed photographs displayed there.

There was a larger version of the pocket photograph of himself and his brother, photographs of a pretty woman both as a young woman and then with a young man who looked remarkably like Sydney himself. I blinked when I saw a picture of Jarod as a teenager peering somberly at me – and then one that must have been taken about ten years earlier that showed both keen intelligence and a quiet reservation in the dark eyes. There was also a picture of my old friend Catherine Jamison holding her little girl – and then a much more recent picture of Catherine, or was it Catherine? A certain hardness in the way the woman was posing made me wonder.

Stirring behind me made me jump – and Sydney was leaning against the archway holding two mugs. "I thought I'd heard you come down the stairs," he told me, pushing off and walking toward me holding out one of the mugs. "Here – this should help."

"I was admiring your photo collection," I explained, taking the mug from him and breathing in the welcome aroma of fresh-brewed coffee before taking a sip. I pointed to the photo of a much-younger Jarod. "I have no pictures of him at that age."

"I can remedy that for you," Sydney told me kindly. "Take that one – I'll have another printed from the archives."

I shook my head. "No. He wasn't mine at that age – he was yours." Still, I looked at the picture with longing as I sipped at the coffee. This was the Jarod I would never know – the Jarod he had been while I'd been raising my daughter on the run. "He doesn't look very happy."

"He wasn't," Sydney said, walking up to stand next to me. "As I remember, about the time the yearly photographs were taken that particular year, he was having a very difficult time with creating a sense of self-identity." He sipped at his coffee and then sighed deeply. "I told you, the SIMs were very hard on him." He pointed at the photo of the much-older Jarod. "That one was taken only about three months before he escaped."

"Is that your son?" I asked, pointing to the picture of the young man that looked so much like him with the middle-aged woman.

"Mmm-hmmm," he nodded. "And his mother, Michelle." His fingers stroked the glass near Nicholas' face. "Not long after I found them, she sent me this – and a few pictures of Nicholas when he was a boy." He looked at me, but his brown eyes were guarded. "I can understand your feeling as if Jarod didn't belong to you at that age," he indicated the picture of the young Jarod. "I leave other the pictures of Nicholas in the envelope for much the same reason – this is the Nicholas I know." He seemed to shake himself. "Your bagel is ready. Come on."

I followed him without complaint – I was actually starting to feel a little hungry, and that bagel and cream cheese and fig preserves sounded good. He pointed me to his kitchen table – a smaller and round version of the oaken dining table we had to skirt to get into the kitchen through the dining room – and brought out the bagel from where it had been warming in the oven. It was toasted to perfection – and the condiments and cheese were already on the table waiting for me.

My hunger pressed me, making my stomach growl at the sight of food, and I applied myself to spreading the cheese and then the dark fig preserves onto the bagels without another word. Sydney seated himself across from me and let me satisfy my hunger without speaking, although a few glances up at him showed me that he was watching me very closely. I was partway finished with the second half of my bagel when the silent watching began to get on my nerves. "Have I grown a third horn?" I asked as I reached for the coffee again.

"How close did they come to finding you this morning?" he asked me – startling me enough that I fumbled the bagel.

"Close enough," I muttered and covered my lapse by taking a longer sip of the hot coffee than I would have otherwise, then grimaced as I nearly scalded my tongue.

His hand reached out and stilled my arm from carrying the bagel back to my mouth. "Peg, how close?"

I didn't want to think about it – every time I did, my nose seemed to fill with the stench of musty, mildewed clothing. "Too close," I replied and pulled at my arm. "I really don't want to talk about it."

His hand withdrew, and he watched me polish off the rest of the bagel before asking, "Has it ever been this close before?"

I shook my head and sipped again at my coffee – more carefully this time. "Never this close," I managed finally. "Please, Sydney, I don't want to…"

"I know you don't," he told me kindly, "but it would be better if you did."

"Please don't play psychiatrist to me," I begged. "Right now, I don't need a shrink – I need a friend."

"Then talk to me AS a friend, Peg. Telling someone – like me – what happened to you will help YOU process the event better." He put out a hand to me again, just shy of touching me. "I can promise not to play shrink or try to psychoanalyze everything you say, if it would help."

"Just thinking about it brings it all back!" I complained bitterly and buried my nose in my coffee cup to try to combat the resurgent memory of the stench of mildew and dust. I gagged – and then had to make a quick run when my stomach rebelled entirely. I only barely made it to the rest room before losing what little was in my stomach into the toilet bowl. I felt rather than saw Sydney come behind me and support me with a hand at my forehead and around my waist.

Too miserable to care anymore, I let the tears roll down my cheeks – tears of humiliation and horror. It no longer mattered if I could find a small, dark, private hole or not – evidently I wasn't to be granted that kind of mercy this time around, but rather would have an audience to my conniption fit whether I wanted one or not. And that was the least of my worries – if I closed my eyes, I was back in that trunk again, and I was suffocating.

When it seemed that my now-dry heaves were finally letting up, Sydney stepped away from me long enough to get a small plastic cup of cool water, which he handed to me with a gentle directive to "Rinse and spit." He then physically maneuvered me until I was sitting on a closed toilet lid while he flushed the evidence of my hysteria away and wet a washrag to wipe my face gently for me.

What few defenses I'd managed to conserve were gone – and my legs were like jello. When he pulled me to my feet, I was grateful for his arm around my waist to support me – for without it, I would have fallen to the floor. He ushered me back out to the kitchen and back into my chair, removed both the coffee and the now-empty plate from in front of me and then turned his back on me while he set the tea kettle on the stove to boil and began other preparations.

It was just as well – had it mattered, I would have been glad he wasn't watching me anymore. As it was, however, I was now shaking inside so badly that I could hardly breathe, and I couldn't stop crying. My sobs, I knew, were coming out sounding more like hiccoughs, but they hurt nevertheless. Sydney took a moment out of whatever he was doing and moved a box of Kleenexes in front of me, which I immediately made use of. A gentle hand landed on my shoulder, squeezed gently, and was left there only long enough to be recognized as the gesture of comfort that it was intended before he moved back to his counter.

It hadn't been this bad when I was raising Emily – for her, I'd focused more on just getting through each day as best we could, staying at least one step ahead of the Centre. When we just barely managed to elude them, keeping Emily from having to suffer the terror of knowing herself to have been in danger had been paramount in my mind – and it gave me a reason to keep a tight lid on my own fears. But once Emily had gone, and that singular focus for my priorities was removed – and when Dan had come back into my life – THAT was when things had started to get worse.

Dan, when faced with one of my now-frequent panic attacks, had always tried to comfort, embrace – smother. He'd used hugs, kisses, even physical intimacy itself, to try to distract me from my fears. It had sometimes turned what was an already debilitating situation into a mildly combative one where I tried to fight him off until I simply had no more energy to resist. I'd never blamed him for anything – not even the fact that the need to try to fight him off usually only served to make the panic attacks more acute – I knew that my panics distressed him terribly and that he'd only wanted to help without knowing how or what to do.

Now, however, Sydney was keeping well away from me, except for that one glancing hand on the shoulder. And yet with that, oddly enough, I began to relax. He was silent still, neither pressing for information about what had set me off so completely nor prattling on, but very obviously there and aware and paying attention to what was going on behind him. The benevolent neglect, combined with the certain knowledge that I wasn't alone, was beginning to work – my sobs were less grinding, and the inner trembling was turning intermittent.

Then Sydney moved back to the table, placing before me a mug filled with a fragrant and light-colored herbal tea concoction and a plate with a lightly toasted and unbuttered piece of bread. He sat down in his chair again and reached for my hand that had the latest wad of drenched tissue in it. "Take a deep breath," he suggested in a calm and very quiet voice. "Just concentrate on breathing. Don't fight the tears – just work on breathing."

I tried to do as he said – and I'm sure that my trembling was traveling all the way down my arm and into the hand he was holding – but it was hard. It took several tries before I managed one good, deep breath without a sob at the end. "That's it," he squeezed my hand encouragingly. "Again." I had to use my other hand to grab another tissue as tears I could no longer control kept rolling down my face because, strange as it seemed, his hand holding mine had become an anchor. With that hand holding me in place, I was slowly able to concentrate on my breathing better – and after a while had managed two more deep breaths that didn't hiccough.

Minutes passed, and the two deep breaths had become four, and while my heart still pounded in my throat, I was no longer sobbing and hiccoughing. My tears were beginning to slow too – this calm, quiet, controlling and yet noninvasive presence that he was projecting was taking all the steam from my extreme panic. The kitchen was light, warm, friendly – the hand that held mine tight, warm and steady – and I was actually beginning to feel safe in spite of what my mind would have me do. "Have a sip of the tea," he suggested then, still without releasing his hold on my hand. I put the tissue down and did as he asked – the tea was mild and slightly sweet – and very delicate. Even my touchy stomach didn't complain as the warm liquid touched it.

"Better," I whispered, putting the mug down. "Thank you."

"Take it slow," he directed. "A sip of tea every minute or so – just concentrate on breathing between times."

I nodded, wiping a new spurt of tears away with the back of my hand and then reaching for the mug once more. As I was calming, I was realizing how exhausted I was. My eyes, which were already puffy from crying, began to droop.

"I gave you chamomile, which will help relax you," he told me gently, "combined with some mint to settle the stomach and honey for energy. When you're ready, take a small bite of the toast – but only a small bite. No need to have to race to the bathroom again."

"I'm very tired," I told him softly, reaching for the toast.

"I'm not surprised," he replied, still in that calm, quiet tone. "I shouldn't doubt that when we finish here, you nap again for another hour or two. You wore yourself out rather effectively there with your flashback."

"I'm sorry…" I fought the tears this time – and could feel the surge of sobs trying to break loose again.

"Calm down," he told me firmly. "Breathe, Peg. There's nothing to apologize for. Take it slow – remember, don't fight the tears. Just breathe. You're safe now."

I clung to him and did what he said – and trusted that he was telling me the truth.


	6. Holding On

Chapter 6 – Holding On

I roused to the sound of low speaking and looked around me. Sydney had deposited me onto his couch this time – and during the time I'd been asleep, evidently had built a fire in the fireplace to warm the room. It was no longer morning – as a matter of fact, I wasn't sure what time it was. The flicker of the flames reflected in the finish of the wood and the brass trim gave the room an established, safe appearance that defied second-guessing the hour. I pushed back the afghan and sat up, amazed that I'd managed to actually sleep without nightmares. That thought brought memories near the surface with it – but I managed to shove them back down into the darkness before they could trigger anything new.

I'd been utterly exhausted by the time Sydney finally helped me from the kitchen and into the living room to lie down. I'd already completely lost track of time, sitting there with my one hand held tightly and with calming, steady, quiet words in my ear to keep me from being carried off by the panic again. I'd finished my tea – twice – and finally been allowed to finish the whole slice of toast. Three times the panic had tried to overwhelm me again – three times I'd been talked back into a state of numb obedience. When I'd finally closed my eyes while being tucked in on the couch, I'd fallen into a deep, dark hole with not a single feature to cling to.

Still, I was awake now and curious about whom Sydney was talking to. I rose – glad that my feet were still clad only in the warm stockings I'd been given earlier – and followed the voice until I stood just outside the kitchen. It soon became evident who Sydney was talking to – or rather, lecturing fairly vehemently.

"Jarod – I'm telling you that this was a full-blown panic attack, complete with hysterics, emesis, hyperventilation, physical and emotional withdrawal from reality…" He paused, listening, and then added, "No, I seriously doubt this is the first time. She assumed a very defensive posture when I first tried to get her to talk – I'm assuming someone has attempted to comfort her out of at least one in the past in a completely inappropriate manner."

I riled – Dan had tried hard – but then bit my tongue. Sydney's tone was more that of a clinician, discussing a case with another professional. He was giving Jarod information about my situation – letting him know the state I was in for when Jarod was the one who would have to deal with me. Perhaps that would work out well when I began to insist that I be given a new life – one where I didn't have to watch over my shoulder all the time.

"Well, I'll do what I can here to get her stabilized – but I suggest that she not be placed in any more situations where her fight-or-flight mechanism needs to be triggered. I suspect she has been suffering for several years from a certain amount of chronic PTS from living a life perpetually on the run – and combined with the close call this time, her threshold for a psychotic break has been approached." He listened again. "No, I know… She's strong, Jarod – and I suspect that's the only reason she's managed to keep her wits about her this long. I just don't want to see her have to test that strength anymore. She's suffered enough – more than anybody will probably ever know. She deserves better."

I was touched. Sydney was pleading my case for me! Here and I'd once thought this man a monster! How wrong I'd been!

"I'll take good care of her for you, I promise," Sydney continued – obviously the discussion was winding down now. "She's asleep right now – I'll see if I can get her to open up a bit and work out some of the worst of it…" He paused. "Yes, that's what I was afraid of. Are you sure?" He paused again, listening. "That would be better, Jarod. She's going to need help – although if you don't want to leave her here with me, or if you don't dare, then you'll have to do it yourself. The problem with THAT is that you're her son – you'll be too close to the problem – not to mention that this is NOT going to resolve with a quick fix…"

It bothered me to think that Sydney was genuinely worried about me in that way. I liked to think of myself as a strong and independent woman, perfectly capable of handling whatever the Centre tossed in my direction. Of course, thinking that brought back the slightest whiff of musty, mildewed clothing – which made my heart speed up in my chest. No, Sydney was right – this time, I was going to need help, REAL help. In a way, it was too bad that Jarod was coming for me tomorrow evening, for I had a suspicion that Sydney was a good enough therapist that he'd be able to help me learn to cope with my fears – IF he had enough time, that was. I wondered if he could be convinced to try.

I moved into the kitchen now, letting him know that I was up and listening. He smiled at me. "Jarod, she's up and in the kitchen with me now. I'll talk to you later. Would you like…?" He nodded and held his cell phone out to me. "He wants to talk to you."

I took the device from him. "Jarod?"

"Mom?" Jarod sounded worried. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been chased by the hounds of Hell themselves," I told him frankly. "I don't know how they didn't see me, honey…" I began to shake again. "I can't go back to that place…"

I felt a hand fall gently on my shoulders again from behind me – just enough support from Sydney to keep me from spiraling out of control again. And then the touch was gone – just a gentle reminder to hang on, breathe… I took a deep breath, and the panic subsided some.

"I'm working on it, Mom – I promise. Sydney doesn't want you back in any kind of a stressful or precarious situation again – and from the sounds of it, I don't think I do either. The thing is, a completely new life – one that will survive Centre scrutiny undetected to the point that you don't have to live with one ear to the ground constantly – is going to take some time to put together. If you want to get away from Blue Cove immediately…"

It was an opening I couldn't resist. "Jarod – what if I stayed here for a while?" I glanced over my shoulder at my host, who had been startled enough to turn and look at me with raised eyebrows. "Sydney has helped me a lot already in a very short time. If he doesn't mind putting up with a house guest for a while longer, it would give YOU the time you need to do things properly and maybe give him the chance to help me some more too." I lowered my voice. "I just can't live on the run anymore, Jarod – alone or even with you. I can't handle it anymore."

"OK, Mom, it's OK." Even Jarod sounded relieved. "Let me talk to Sydney and see how long he thinks things on your end will take – and I'll get moving on finding you a life that you can honestly live with. No more Pretends for me until you're settled properly this time, I promise."

I felt as if a load had dropped away. "Thank you, Jarod," I sighed.

"And I'm really sorry that this had to happen to you," he replied, his voice shimmering with regret. "I honestly thought that you would be safest there."

"I know, honey – but I survived. That's the important thing. Let me give you back to Sydney then." I held out the phone to its owner. "He wants to talk to you again."

He took the phone. "Jarod?" He listened, nodding. "Agreed." Again he listened. "Well, granted that I'm going to have to go to work at the Centre throughout this time, I'm estimating at least a week to ten days of intensive evening work everyday just to…" He listened and nodded again. "Fair enough. What?" He shook his head. "No, of course I don't mind." His eyes opened and he looked directly at me. "Your mother is a delightful lady – it will be a treat to have her as a guest in my house for more than just a day or so."

I smiled – to myself and to him – and walked over to the arcadia door that opened onto the back yard to look outdoors. I saw a snow-encumbered fountain, a plastic-covered lathe house near edge of the patio slab, several trees which in summer probably shaded a goodly portion of the yard, and a broad expanse of what would be lush grass in better season. There were no houses behind him, so I could see low fields stretching beyond the back fence. No wonder it was so quiet here – I was on the very edge of the hamlet.

It had become silent while I'd been observing the outdoors, and I felt movement at my elbow – Sydney moved to stand on the other side of the door. "Provided that you can handle being in Blue Cove for a while longer, Jarod agrees that it would be best you stay here – for a week at least, maybe a bit longer."

"It won't put you out?" I'd actually invited myself – I needed to make sure that he wasn't just being kind.

He smiled and shook his head at me. "Not at all – you'll just need to keep a very low profile during the day when the house would normally be unoccupied because I'm at work." He took in the way my face paled slightly. "And I can show you the best places to hide yourself here IF the situation should arise – even though I doubt it will."

"Do you honestly think they won't suspect…?" I worried at him, my heart beating faster.

"Peg," he soothed, reaching across the distance and taking my hand again. "Do you really think I would have brought you into my own home if I thought that they'd figure anything out?"

I still wasn't convinced – even though I wanted so much to believe him. "Jarod was so certain the cottage would be safe too…"

"True," he dropped my hand and shrugged, "but you aren't quite so isolated here as you were in that cottage. If nothing else, if the Centre decided to break in here and search the place during daylight hours while I'm away, or even in the evening, it would cause the neighbors to talk – something the Centre does NOT like to have happen. The Centre functions best when their "need to know" standards can be kept quite high."

"I do need help, don't I?" God, that was hard to ask! I could admit it to myself – but to say it openly to another…

I'd never seen such an expression on a man's face before – a combination of deep worry, sadness and hope rolled into an emotional collage. "What do you think?" was his soft question back at me.

I knew the mess I'd made of myself that morning, and I could feel the warmth of my embarrassment fill my cheeks. "I was a basket case."

"You were very upset – and with what I suspect is good reason," he told me gently. "What I need to know now, however, is whether you want my help or not." Sydney's voice was soft. "If you don't, then I don't want to go about upsetting you again by asking you questions you don't want to answer; and if you think just resting and staying quiet and secure for a stretch of time will do the trick…"

"I heard you talking to Jarod, Sydney," I confessed, my cheeks still burning. "Do YOU believe that my just resting and staying quiet and secure would do the trick?" I could see from the expression on his face how little he believed that. "So I DO need the help – and I think I want you to try." I shook my head at my own thinking. "I never thought I'd be saying this, but I think I trust you."

"It's only fair to warn you," he turned serious, "this isn't going to be easy or fun, Peg. I'm not going to lie to you. You'll no doubt be furious with me at least several times between now and when Jarod comes – for prying into matters you'd rather keep private…."

I swallowed hard. ""No pain, no gain" – isn't that what they say in weight-lifting?" I joked. "How much do you want to bet that by the time this is over, you'll have been furious with me at least half as often as I have with you – because of some of what you'll end up hearing me say?"

He wasn't laughing. "I sincerely hope not."

oOoOo

Sydney's tour of his home that afternoon – after a nourishing but light lunch of chicken broth and buttered toast, accompanied by more of that delicate tea - had been very thorough. He'd left not one corner of it out due to modesty or even a need for privacy – and I now knew at least three very clever places to hide myself should I ever feel threatened or in danger of discovery. He'd been very frank about the whole matter, and in so doing helped me to feel slightly more in control of my life again. It was a real relief to not having my fears made into things to be dismissed lightly or ridiculed, but rather hearing another speak of them as serious obstacles that deserved and would be given their proper due in time.

Over lunch, we'd discussed his normal working schedule so that I was fully aware of what time things in this house would have to close down and appear unoccupied. He'd given me permission to browse his own, prodigious library for reading material to occupy my time while he was away. As with Jarod's library at the cottage, I had plenty of opportunities for self-entertainment at hand for the choosing.

He insisted that I retire again for an hour or so, later in the afternoon, for yet another nap – telling me that a goodly part of the reason I was so easily upset-able still was that my sleep patterns over the years had deteriorated badly. A morning and an afternoon nap every day for a while, long enough to refresh without oversleeping, would help combat that chronic fatigue. He took me into the kitchen and showed me where he kept his sizeable collection of herbal teas, taking down one box in particular and voicing his preference that I restrict my intake to just that one – the one he'd given me twice now. I insisted on at least helping him prepare the evening meal – a hearty and nourishing stew that he had made previously and frozen for later, as well as warmed-up French bread with butter.

In our time together over the course of the afternoon, I discovered that Sydney was a quiet, introspective man given to long silences. The lack of communication didn't feel like our discussion had just died for lack of intent or mutual interest – merely that he was both giving me space to think things through for myself and claiming the right to do the same as well. Far from making me feel uncomfortable, the silences helped me to relax even more – there was nothing so pressing as for either of us to need to break the silence, which in itself was a huge relief.

With another pot of tea in hand – and a fresh box of tissues – Sydney escorted me back into the living room once the supper clean up was finished.

"How are we going to do this?" I asked, suddenly a little nervous. "Shall I lie down on the couch while you pull one of the chairs over behind me?"

Sydney set the tissue box on the coffee table even as he shook his head. "Nothing quite so stereotypical," he replied, pointing for me to put the teapot on a small trivet that had somehow appeared on the coffee table as well. "You sit on one end of the couch, I sit either on the other or in one of the chairs – and we talk."

"OK…" I offered, sitting down on the nearest end of the couch and folding my hands in my lap. I watched silently as he walked over to one of the bookcases, pulled a small spiral notebook out of a desk cleverly hidden disguised as more books, and then came back over to the other end of the couch from me. "Shall I pour the tea now?"

"I'm fine," he shook his head and opened the spiral book to the first, evidently blank page. "This what we're going to do for this evening, at least. I'm going to ask you questions, and I need you to give honest and as complete answers as you can. If what I ask makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me exactly that." His brown eyes rested on me steadily. "How does that sound?"

"Scary," I admitted, my fingers seeking out the hem of my blouse and tracing the stitching nervously, "depending one what you ask questions about."

"Let's start back when you felt you had to start running from the Centre – when was that?"

That was easy. "After Emily was born. There was a nurse I recognized from NuGenesis at the hospital when I went into labor – Dan kept an eye on her rather than doing his nervous father routine in the waiting room." I tried to smile, but this wasn't a good memory for me so the joke fell flat. "The minute the doctor had done all the necessary tests on her, we signed Em and me out against medical advice and took off for the farm of a mutual friend of Catherine's and mine from our Catholic School days."

"Harriet Tashman," Sydney nodded.

"We stayed there for a couple of months. Dan had been in contact with Catherine, and the two of them were planning to free several children who'd been taken by the Centre – Jarod and Kyle included – with some inside help from a couple of men at the Centre that Catherine felt could be trusted." I fidgeted. "Only one of the men from the Centre betrayed them all – and Catherine ended up dead with Dan sought for her murder."

"Meanwhile the rest of us were given to understand that she'd committed suicide," Sydney added softly. "It was a bad time for everyone."

My eyebrows shot up. "Suicide? Catherine??"

Sydney shook his head at me. "We'll discuss that another time – right now let's stick to matters at hand, shall we? Go on – your husband was sought by the Centre for supposedly murdering Catherine…"

I nodded. "Dan and I tried to stay together – but it seemed that every time we tried to settle somewhere new, and Dan started looking for a job, the Centre came along about two or three weeks later." My voice was soft. I hated having to think of those days – the last days I'd been able to think like or behave like a happily married woman, albeit in an extreme situation. "We decided after about six months of never being able to rest that it would be better if I took the baby and Dan led the Centre away from us."

Sydney nodded. "Did that make life easier for you?"

I shook my head. "No. I was alone with a eight-month-old child and afraid to fill out an employment application with my real name or credentials. It was a very difficult time – especially because Dan and I didn't dare make contact." It was worse than a difficult time – it was when my constant worry was having enough money to feed my daughter, and sometimes failing even at that.

"At all?"

I shook my head. "At first it was a case of I was afraid to contact him – but later, after the one time I did try so that he could at least talk to Emily on her first birthday, I realized I didn't know HOW to contact him anymore. We never made a failsafe contact point, where we could leave messages for the other no matter what."

Sydney gazed at me. "How did this make you feel?"

I frowned back at him. "How do you think it made me feel? I was frightened – I never knew when the Centre would come out of the woodwork and I'd have to pray I had money for bus fare to the next town. I was hungry – when money was short, it was Emily I made sure got the food."

"So you were… angry?"

"I didn't have time to get angry – and I had nobody to get angry AT."

"Not even Dan, for having been part of a plot that ended up getting a bulls-eye painted on his back AND yours?"

I shook my head. "I knew we were targets when they took Kyle the same way they took Jarod – and when Dan saw the NuGenesis nurse when I was having Em. What happened with Dan and Catherine was just a final straw."

Sydney nodded encouragingly. "Very well – so what happened then?"

God, this was so hard! "I learned that it was easier to tell when the Centre was getting close by staying in the really small towns, you know? Places where you get very used to the few faces that belong – and where strangers stand out."

"How long did you manage to stay in one place?" was the next, calm and implacable question.

I sighed. "Never more than three or four months at a time," I told him. "I would rent a room on credit – barter my services as a maid for the boarding house for room and board until I could be there long enough to get a real job and pay for the room properly. But the Centre never quit – never stopped looking…"

oOoOo

I was exhausted by the time Sydney declared that we'd done enough for one evening – exhausted and emotionally drained from being required to relive those horrible years with Emily as a small child and then a teenager all over again. But I'd not been SO exhausted as to oversleep the next morning and miss having breakfast with my host before he drove himself into the Centre.

"I recommend that you pack yourself something for lunch, select your reading material for the day, and stay upstairs until I get back," Sydney told me as he collected his coat and briefcase. "The less movement through the house – especially downstairs – the better. We don't want even the neighbors suspecting that you're here."

"I remember," I told him obediently. "I've already made another pot of your tea. I'll be good – I promise."

He gave me a wide smile – one that I'd not seen before and decided would be wonderful to see more often. "I have no doubt about that," he said, wrapping his scarf about his neck. "If I'm to be late, I'll call. When I'm on the way home, I'll call to warn you I'm coming. Keep the cordless handset from my bedroom with you at all times."

"Yes, sir." I smiled back at him. "Have a good day."

He gave me a quick grin, set his beret firmly over his silvered head and walked out into the garage. I closed the door behind him firmly and was on the way up the stairs with a mug to go with the tea when I heard the low hum of his car's engine and the rough growl of the garage door opener. I was on my way back downstairs for a Tom Clancy novel I'd seen amid a collection of paperbacks and the sandwich I'd made from cheese and left-over French bread when the garage door opener growled a second time – telling me that the house was now officially SUPPOSED to be unoccupied.

Sydney had given me a small, wind-up travel alarm clock and clear instructions about taking my mid-morning and mid-afternoon naps. I was amazed to discover that even though I didn't feel sleepy when I forced myself to lie down, it never failed that my eyes would close and it would take the alarm to rouse me after my specified hour. By the time the phone rang at five-thirty that night, telling me that Sydney was on his way, I was feeling more rested than I had been in a very long time.

As I crept down the stairs and into the unlit kitchen to await Sydney's return, I reviewed what had transpired the evening before. I had told Sydney everything, as he'd requested – all about the budding friendships I'd learned to leave behind without a backwards glance, all about the temper tantrums Emily would throw when told that she was going to have to do the same, all about how the look on Emily's face made me feel like the worst mother in the world when I told her that we had to keep moving because "bad men were chasing us," and all about deciding not to put Emily in the public school – as much not to call attention to the vagrant life style she was leading as to hide her prodigious intelligence – and teaching her to be extremely quiet, well-behaved and content at home, alone, while I worked in order not to cause attention to herself or us that would summon the "bad men" again. I'd talked about learning to distrust everyone around me – except for Emily. And I'd talked about how, at times, it had become increasingly difficult to distinguish the real Centre threat from innocent strangers like myself – and the many times I'd picked us up and moved to a new town or city without being absolutely certain it was the Centre that had come to town, how my fear began to prey on me.

Tonight I would have to begin to talk about what had happened when Dan and I reconnected – thanks to Jarod – and about my reaction to hearing what little I knew about what the Centre had done to my sons. I wasn't looking forward to the "talk" to come.

What I WAS looking forward to, however, was having living, breathing companionship again. The day had been long and quiet, filled with napping and reading and a light lunch that more than satisfied – but it had been a lonely day. It had taken being put in a small cottage by myself in the middle of the Centre's back pocket to realize that I NEEDED to have people around me – even if I didn't trust them or even if I did. I had to really discipline myself not to get up from my chair and throw my arms around Sydney's neck in welcome when he walked through that kitchen door again – so ready was I for human contact again.

"You look rested," was his first comment after turning on the kitchen light and looking genuinely pleased to see me sitting there waiting for him.

"I'm feeling more rested," I admitted. "How was your day?"

Sydney shrugged, as much to shed the heavy coat as to answer my question. "Miss Parker is making noise about a possible sighting in Baltimore that may require us to head in that direction – whether she decides it's credible or not enough to warrant filing an expense report is another question. Other than that, I have a research project involving twins…"

"Sydney, Jarod HAS been in Baltimore since I've been in Blue Cove," I told him quietly, much of my good mood having evaporated on the spot.

"I know that, Peg – and if I know Jarod at all, he's NOT where he was during the Pretend anymore. Remember?" Sydney gave me a quick smile and a pat on the shoulder while carrying his briefcase to its customary place on the kitchen desk. "He said he was going to concentrate on building you a more permanent identity off the Centre radar. IF we end up going to Baltimore, I'm willing to bet you that all we find is the usual – a slightly messy and thoroughly abandoned lair and a red notebook detailing exactly what he accomplished this time around, along with some oblique clues either meant for Miss Parker or hinting at something he MAY be considering doing in the future."

"You're certain?" I was worried now.

Sydney took another look at my face and nodded gently on his way to the refrigerator. "Peg. Jarod is verrrry good at what he does – and at keeping a close eye on what the Centre is up to in the meantime. If we're only now hearing about Baltimore – and you and I know that Jarod has already moved beyond that Pretend – then you can be certain that he's already far out of harm's way."

I could only hope that Sydney's experience in watching first hand as the Centre struggled to catch up to Jarod made his prediction come true. The mere idea that the Centre was taking a step ahead in its pursuit – even though it was Jarod that was the target and not me – was enough to have my heart beating faster. It was getting difficult to breathe…

"Peg?"

I looked up – had he been speaking to me? "I'm sorry…"

He closed the fridge door and moved over to the kitchen chair nearest me and sat down. "You look pale. What's going on?"

I shook my head. My fears were irrational – they had to be. I wasn't the one in danger, so there was no reason for me to react this way. "I'll be fine," I told him after struggling to take a deep breath.

Sydney shook his head and reached for my hand as it lay in my lap, and then carried it to the table. "Talk to me, Peg. This is important – this is part of what we're trying to work through – remember?"

"I feel…" I could feel the burn starting in my cheeks – this was ridiculous! "It's as if getting closer to Jarod brings the Centre closer to me." I tried to laugh off the feeling and ended up sounding close to tears. "How selfish is that of me?"

"Deal with the feelings – don't judge yourself," Sydney advised me quietly. "This is only a sign of hypersensitivity – not selfishness. You are personalizing the hunt for Jarod and impressing it into your own situation. That's merely another symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress."

"How can I stop doing that?" I demanded, half angry at myself now. "It's like I just HEAR a mention of the Centre, and I'm ready to climb the walls!"

Sydney nodded sympathetically. "And that reaction, in many ways, is how you see yourself having kept out of their reach for a very long time, is it not?"

He may have been correct, but it didn't help. "Or making my own life more chaotic for no good reason…"

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but we're not dealing with the past here, Peg. This is now – this is your reaction to things happening around you NOW. If you can begin to see why you begin to go through a certain sequence of responses, you will eventually be able to take more control over which sequence of responses you choose – out of a larger number of options." He squeezed my hand. "Give me a list of symptoms you're feeling right now – heart beating faster?"

I nodded.

"Dizzy, nauseated?" I shook my head – it wasn't that bad, at least, not yet. "Feel like you need to jump up and do something?" I nodded slowly – it was more a sense of perhaps the time had come for me to move on. "Feeling insecure?"

"Yes!"

Sydney nodded. "And yet, here you sit in my kitchen. Your heart is beating hard, you're not quite hyperventilating - but you're not running. Why is that?"

I glared at him. "Because you're hanging onto me for one thing, and…" I hesitated as his hand dropped mine immediately – and I regretted my hasty words. "…and because you're telling me that Jarod is in no real danger, and because…" I hung my head now. "…because I suppose I took the time to realize that Jarod's troubles are not necessarily my own."

"Verrrry good." Sydney rose and left a gentle hand on my shoulder for a brief moment – both a congratulations and a comforting gesture. "In this situation, at least, you are giving yourself options for your responses – and you are choosing to go with your head, and not your adrenaline."

I looked up at his face and found him looking at me with an expression that he quickly shrouded behind gentle concern. "Is that good?"

He nodded. "It's progress." He moved back to the fridge and opened it again. "And we'd best get a good meal into us now, so that we can continue progressing this evening, yes?"

oOoOo

It was a good thing Sydney had plenty of tissues in that box that night, because I made use of a goodly share of them. His questions were always asked in a gentle and non-threatening manner – but most of them ended up prying into the parts of my latter day relationship with my husband that I tried to avoid thinking about much. He eventually managed to get me to talk about the way Dan reacted to my panic attacks. I was hard-pressed to look the man in the face as he insisted on my describing how I felt when pressed, in the middle of fearing for my life and having trouble breathing and thinking clearly, to have sex. I could have screamed at him – and did, a little, in humiliation and a desire to run away and hide – but as he pressed further and further into that, I began to see how those incidents had been real turning points in the way I thought about my own panics.

I was beyond exhausted that night by the time Sydney called our "talk" finished for the time being. I barely had the energy to wish him "good night" before I stumbled up the stairs to bed – and then the dreams began. They were more nightmares than dreams – nightmarish memories of the way Dan's face would look as we would settle ourselves into some nondescript motel after driving three or four hundred miles like bats out of Hell. Why had I never seen how flushed and… excited… Dan had looked when resting after escaping the Centre yet again?

I jerked myself out of sleep when it occurred to me that, to Dan, our narrow escapes had become a form of aphrodisiac – and that his urges had ruled his head when my fears were ruling mine. Yes, he'd tried to comfort – but he was already stimulated and aroused, and so the inevitable conclusion of his trying to help me was easy to predict. No wonder I had begun to find reasons to avoid meeting with him for more than a day or so.

I was sickened by the thought, and I threw on my robe and slippers and opened the bedroom door.

But what was I looking for?

I went to the top of the stairs and looked down – and sagged against the banister when I saw that the light was still on in the living room. Sydney was still up. HE was what I was looking for – and this time, not for psychoanalysis, but comfort.

What the Hell did I think I was doing?

But my need for human touch, for perhaps a warm shoulder and arms around me was driving me now. I came down the stairs quietly and peered into the living room to find Sydney still at the end of the couch, glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading. The magazine dropped, and the glasses came off as I walked around the end of the couch and seated myself next to him – much closer than at the opposite end of the couch.

"What's this?" he asked kindly and a little tiredly, leaning forward to put glasses and magazine on the coffee table next to the empty teapot and two mugs that were still there.

"Am I…" I began, embarrassed to even have to ask the question, "…am I so damaged that Dan had to use the excitement of close brushes with the Centre to feel…"

"I doubt that had anything to do with you, Peg," he answered softly. "The adrenaline rush that comes with danger can become addictive to some people."

"But he would hardly even touch me if we weren't just running…" It was, I think, the hardest admission I'd made. "I'm not sure that he didn't bring the Centre to us just so that our time together could include…"

I felt a gentle finger beneath my chin, lifting my head so that I was looking at him directly. "That still says nothing about you – and quite a bit about the emotional state of your husband. You each spent nearly thirty years playing hide-and-seek with the Centre – and you each responded to the precariousness of your lives in different ways. Dan, from what you've said, seems to have become addicted to the rush and needed that rush to assist him in…" He paused, probably trying to figure out a diplomatic way to tell me that I'd lost my ability to stimulate my husband sexually without the assistance of the thrill that came from eluding the Centre.

"I wasn't enough any more," I told myself sadly. "I knew there were other women." I lifted my chin from Sydney's hold and looked down again. "There were little clues in his belongings – tee shirts that would smell of a woman's perfume. And I could see it in the way he'd react and behave with the people around him – even strangers. I was being so careful, and he was out-going."

"I'm surprised, considering this history, that you even attempted to open a dialogue with me by email when Jarod brought you to that cottage," Sydney shook his head gently, his hand falling into his lap.

"I was alone," I told him honestly, "and Jarod gave me your email address, as much as an answer to a dare as anything else. You'll never know how hard that first email was to write. I thought I was writing to a monster."

Sydney's face folded sadly. "I AM a monster from a certain perspective."

I shook my head and put my hand on his arm. "No," I replied. "You're not."

His eyes swept my face intently. "And you are not unattractive, Peg – despite the way your husband behaved." I blinked – how could he have known that was what I was thinking? "Just because Dan had issues – or used close calls with the Centre as means to arousal – doesn't mean that another man would need more than just your proximity to feel… very…" He paused, and his gaze caught and held mine – and we seemed to move toward each other as if drawn by an irresistible force.

I felt as if I was being given a glimpse into the soul of the man – just for a moment – and finding him just as lonely, just as damaged, just as in need of human contact and affection – and just as much on the brink of reaching out for comfort and whatever might follow as I was. And then, as quickly as that connection had been made, his heavy eyelids closed for a long moment, and the connection was severed.

"We can't do this," he told me gently, sitting back slightly, "_I_ can't do this – not to you, and not now."

I shifted closer to him, drawn by the conflict in his voice and his eyes once they opened again. "Can't do what?"

"Take advantage of you," he replied, his voice almost a whisper. "We've created a sense of intimacy between us with our "talks" – one that holds as much potential for harm as anything else if that intimacy is abused. I've seen the consequences of ignoring the warnings, Peg – I wouldn't wish them on you, or me, for that matter. There's a damned good reason that mental health professionals aren't allowed to fraternize with their patients."

"Sydney…" I couldn't forget what I'd seen in his eyes, and I wanted a chance to answer it, to soothe it away. I knew how it felt all too well…

He cupped my face in his hand. "Do NOT think I'm rejecting you – because I'm not. If the circumstances were different, we wouldn't be having this discussion – in fact, there's a good chance we wouldn't be speaking at all at the moment, much less sitting here side by side on the couch…" He let that statement hang for a long moment of silence, knowing that I would know exactly where he'd intended it to go. I blushed, but I didn't look away. He was right – were it not for his decision, we would more than likely be VERY intimately entangled, either here on the couch or upstairs in bed – and it was what we both wanted very much.

"The problem is that, at the moment, I need to be your therapist to help you deal with your panic attacks and fears – and to do that properly, I have to maintain a certain measure of emotional distance from you. You want comfort tonight, I know – but if I try to comfort you tonight in the way we both know that you want, there is a line that will blur for the both of us that will make the therapy all that much more difficult." His hand caressed my face with a delicate touch, as if memorizing my features. "You've already had so many of your boundaries ignored and violated as the result of inappropriate ways of giving comfort, Peg – I refuse to be a party to abusing you as well."

"Even if this time I don't mind?" I asked softly, drawing up all my courage and moving my hand from his arm to his chest and leaning into him a little more.

"Especially because you don't mind," he breathed, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You are so vulnerable tonight – so uncertain of your own value as a woman – and you are so very beautiful, Peg, so very desirable. And yet, if I touched you tonight the way we both want right now – and then tried to address some of what we uncovered this evening tomorrow – you'd end up feeling betrayed and used. And you'd be right."

"Please…"

He bent his head forward and kissed my cheek – holding me so that I couldn't turn my face so that our lips would meet. "Go back to bed, ma belle – and know that I would be there beside you if this were another world and time, giving you everything you wanted and maybe even more. And I swear to you – on my parents' and brother's graves – that when I'm no longer your therapist and when the Centre is no longer a threat to you, AND if you are still interested and not involved otherwise, I will come to find you and we WILL revisit this topic again. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I understood – I didn't like it, but I understood it. If anything, I was touched even more deeply by his willingness to risk my suffering the feeling of rejection in order to protect me from myself and my wayward urges and his own weakness. What was more, he was offering me a branch of hope – something to hold onto and take with me into a future that would necessarily not include him. Whether or not anything could come of what he was insisting that we both walk away from tonight and leave for a distant future was a matter for another time – as he said, another life.

I turned and kissed the palm of the hand that still held my face – and then rose and went back up the stairs to my solitary bed, as he directed me. I hadn't found what I'd come downstairs looking for – but I wasn't disappointed. What I HAD found made it possible to sleep the rest of the night and all the rest of the nights I spent in that house.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod held his hand out to Sydney. "Thanks, Sydney – I appreciate everything that you've done for her – for us."

Sydney took the hand and pulled my son – OUR son in so many ways, as we had decided one afternoon not long before – into a tight hug. "Thank YOU, Jarod, for giving me a chance to make better a little of what the Centre has so thoroughly made wrong."

Jarod distanced himself from the hug quickly, as if any display of emotion from his former mentor was distressing. He had my computer and suitcase already in hand, and he turned to me. "Is this it?"

I nodded, clasping my purse tightly. "Give me a moment?" I asked, as he signaled that we should head off into the darkness outside the house. He glanced at Sydney and then back at me, and then nodded and slipped out the front door to where his dark colored SUV – a new one – was parked in the shadow of one of the huge elm trees that lined Washington Street.

I looked at the man who had taken me in, fed me, sheltered me, and over the course of two very long, very difficult and very emotional weeks had given me back a part of me that I'd never even realized had been missing for a long time. I was suddenly not at all happy about leaving what had become, for me, my first real refuge from the Centre and all its evil. I had been safe here – safer than I'd been for a very long time. "I'm going to miss you," I told him in a shaky voice.

"And I you," he responded in an equally shaky voice. "More than you'll ever know."

I frowned, trying very hard not to cry. "I'm going to hold you to your promise, you know."

His face went blank for a very short moment, and then he smiled at me – that warm and wide smile that I'd hoped to see more often and had thus far only managed to see twice. "You are, are you?"

"Jarod will know where I am – when the time comes." I pressed. I was going to believe that the Centre would eventually falter – or that the time would come when it would no longer threaten me or mine. I had to. I had a younger son I had to convince of that as well. I could only pray that it happened sooner, and not when my children and my children's children were old.

"We still will have email," he offered, putting a hand out to me.

I had no interest in just holding onto a hand I'd held tightly many times in the past. With Jarod's coming, Sydney had ceased to be my therapist – and I had no intention of letting that event pass unmarked. I stepped up to him past that outstretched hand and wrapped my arms tightly around his waist – and breathed a deep sigh as I felt his arms wrap around me just as tightly. "You'd better write me email," I insisted, my face pressed against his chest. "I'll need to know that you're all right too."

"Goodbye, Peg," Sydney said softly and – as I had hoped he would – tipped my face up with a gentle finger as he finally bent and pressed his lips against mine. I clung to him and gave back every inch of the emotion I'd held in check since that desperately lonely night, knowing that our embrace now would have to last us both for a very long time indeed. He deepened the kiss abruptly – letting loose with everything that he'd been holding back for just as long – and for a long moment, the entire world faded until the only thing that was real was the two of us, together.

And then he had released me and was stepping back – with the only point of contact being his hand at my face. "Go now," he urged, his hand finally dropping away. "Be safe in your new life – safe and happy."

"Goodbye, Sydney," I whispered and spun on my heel and flew down the walk to where the passenger door of the SUV stood open, waiting for me.

"Ready?" Jarod asked as I snapped the seat belt across my lap and settled my purse – with its two new precious photographs safely stored inside with the others – between the front seats behind the shift lever.

"Ready," I replied, casting a long last look at the figure silhouetted in the open front door of his house.

Without another word, Jarod put the vehicle in gear – and we sped off into the night, away from Blue Cove, away from the Centre, away from all of the rest of it.


	7. Epilogue

Chapter 7 – Epilogue

Like much of the rest of the nation, I followed the collapse of the Delaware-based research and development firm known as the Centre on TV from the comfort of my living room – and it played for weeks over the national news like a sordid fantasy soap opera. Once the truth behind the imposing façade of the Tower began to unravel and expose the manipulations, the outright bribery and corruption of elected officials and law enforcement, the scandal began to spread. Mayors, police chiefs, governors and senators began to quake in their boots – and more than one military official in high positions took quick and quiet early retirements in order to try to forestall the inevitable. As time passed, even officials of foreign governments began to feel the pinch of their ties to the former corporation.

In the midst of it all stood the key players at the Centre itself, one by one being dragged away in handcuffs for an alarming assortment of charges that ranged from outright murder to kidnap, extortion, assault and racketeering, as well as many other lesser charges. One executive had even been charged as a serial killer – with several of the more recent victims of his crimes buried on Centre property. Every day brought the names of more Centre employees arrested for their parts in the criminal activities of the corporation – and every day I watched the news for fear of hearing the one name I never wanted to hear connected to the obscenity: the name of the man whom I'd once believed a monster.

But Sydney's name never came up – nor did that of any of the other Centre insiders who had slowly coalesced around Jarod in the last five years to help bring the place to its knees. I didn't ask questions of any of my sons – and Emily, the one who had been most responsible for leaking information to the media through her contacts at the Philadelphia newspaper, had few of the answers anyway. I decided to be simply grateful. My weakness for Belgian psychiatrists was my secret anyway – one that I was fairly sure wouldn't be much appreciated by my children.

The day the Centre's stocks were pulled from trading and the corporation filed for Chapter 13 bankruptcy protection, Jarod, Ethan and JD all came to Kentucky to celebrate with me. We fought over the copies of the New York Times and the Boston Herald that detailed the failure of reorganization attempts and the inevitable seizure of Centre assets by an African financial consortium which held most of the Centre IOUs. The day William Raines was convicted of all of the charges against him and sentenced to life in prison without parole, my family was all around me at the ranch – Emily, her husband and infant daughter, Jarod, JD, and Ethan with his newest girlfriend from Dover – and we all had champagne. It had been a long hard road to freedom for us.

In the last six months previous to this, I had missed my youngest son's capable way of dealing with employees and clients of Charleston Stables, where some of the finest thoroughbred racehorses in Kentucky were raised and up and coming jockeys and dressage riders trained – I tended to be all business, with no time for flexibility or excuses. JD, over the years since we'd come to this life and discovered that Jarod had indeed placed us so far below the Centre's radar as to be virtually immune, had blossomed into an affable, easy-going young man with a ready laugh and a real talent for practical jokes. He brought in the new clients, saw to the scheduling of lessons, and kept the place profitable while I was more than contented keeping an eagle eye on the books, poring over breeding records or out exercising my latest favorite mount. But the lure of being a part of the solution to our family's on-going problem with the Centre had been too great for JD to ignore – and I had spent the last six months alone at the ranch amid a cloud of strangers, acquaintances, students and employees. My celebrations as the Centre retreated from our lives were as much about getting my youngest son back home with me as about freedom from having to live life looking over my shoulder.

But then it was done – the biggest collapses had happened – and my family again scattered as the courts continued to churn out conviction after conviction. Emily and her family headed back to Philadelphia, where her work on breaking the Centre story had won her a brand new editor's post to match husband Phil's new full professorship at the university. Jarod and Ethan, oddly enough, both decided to head back to college to get genuine degrees upon which to base honest careers – Ethan to MIT to train as a structural engineer while Jarod challenged the course work and began work on both his master's thesis and doctorate so he could apply for a research physicist's position for NASA eventually. Last but not least, however, JD was back home in Kentucky and gladly took back his position as manager of Charleston Stables – perfectly happy to put the intellectual stress of his Pretender years and the strain of being part of the "Final Solution" for the Centre behind him. And for the first time in over five years, I began to consider the possibility of taking a vacation.

But then it was April and foaling season – and we had some really good possibilities among our crop of foals this year. So I decided to wait through the spring, keeping tabs on the progress and overseeing the rating of our latest crop of yearlings and watching the new arrivals blossom. I loved working with the horses – they were as intelligent as children and easily as capable of being either as tractable or mischievous or mean-spirited as any human, only without language skills. One had to learn to read body language – a skill that could fail and do injury. My errors were few, but they tended to be large ones. A fall not long after JD was back in charge of the place shattered my shoulder and put my left arm in a cast for weeks – and my vacation was postponed indefinitely while I healed.

Still, I wasn't unhappy. For over five years now, I'd been Margaret Charleston, owner and general manager of Charleston Stables – and the credentials I had in that name had served me in good stead. I had the kind of background that few would question – and as a result, I was able to take a bit of a place in the small community outside which Jarod located my supposedly generations-old family enterprise. I did my civic duty on a very limited, non-photogenic scale, and I had my gentlemen callers – real Southern gentlemen who had begun cautiously inviting me to the occasional community barbeques and symphony concerts in Louisville in the last year or so. I accepted the invitations without offering out too much hope for any relationship going much further than that. I let it be understood that I was uninterested in anything more than friendship – I was a widow, after all.

I was a widow – and my family accepted that I was still grieving for Dan – but deep inside, I wasn't dead at all. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in men – it was that the man I had been holding out five years for was too far away and too dangerous to contact except for very briefly and only through email. I also knew that I had an entire family's distrust to overcome before I dared be open about my feelings about this particular man – much less anybody else less well known. Five years was a long time to wait – and then, as the time seemed to continue to spin on by after the Centre was out of the picture, I began to wonder if Jarod's insistence that Sydney never made a promise he didn't keep was quite as solid a fact as he thought. Of course, that he'd taught Jarod that promises were never to be broken – and that Jarod had taken that lesson very much to heart – didn't bother me at all. I only very privately mourned for what I had once hoped to gain and now despaired of ever seeing. It was five months now – and not a single word. The cell phone number was no good anymore, and the emails were bouncing.

"Penny for your thoughts?" JD asked as he came out onto the patio of our ranch house with a tall glass of iced tea for each of us. It was late summer now – the days had been hot and sticky, and ideal iced tea weather. I could see the dust trails in the air to the east which meant that Cal and Rusty, our two stable hands, had probably driven off for home in the late afternoon down the long, graveled drive to the rural lane that ran straight as an arrow north to town.

"Hmmm?" I looked up into his face – so like his older brother's except for the carefully trimmed goatee and sun-weathered face – and then accepted the drink. "What was that?"

"You're miles away, Mom," he pointed out, sitting down in a chaise lounge next to me. "You have been for weeks."

"I'm sorry," I said and sipped at my tea. I would have to watch it – JD, of them all, was the most sensitive to my moods. "Thanks for the tea."

"Uh-uhn…" He shook his head at me. "You're not getting away with that this time."

"Away with what?" I asked him with an innocent look – or what I hoped was an innocent look.

"You're stewing about something, and have for the past few weeks now," he told me with a tone of certainty. "What?"

"Nothing, honey," I assured him. "My shoulder's aching – that's all." That wasn't entirely a lie – my shoulder had remained painful even after the cast had come off. There were times I could hardly move the arm now.

"Mom, this is me – remember?" JD leaned toward me. "Through thick and thin, remember? You can tell me anything…"

"I'm fine!"

"Physically, maybe – except for that achy shoulder," he reminded me pointedly. "C'mon. Something's bothering you – and it's rather obvious that it's more than just your shoulder."

I gave in to a small extent. I'd never been able to hide my feelings from this extraordinary young man ever since I'd joined my destiny to his. Despite everything, our personalities and mood swings were just too similar. Even Jarod and I weren't this close – and Ethan was far too much like his mother for us to be more than just friends. JD had become the son I'd actually had a hand in raising – even though I'd only had a chance at the years of his early twenties to make him my own. "Nothing that either of us can do anything about, honey," I allowed finally. "Just wishing…"

"Something about the Centre?" he asked with amazing accuracy.

I nodded and sipped at my tea again. "In a manner of speaking."

"And you're still not going to tell me." He wasn't happy about it. We had so few secrets between us.

I shook my head. "No, sweetheart, I'm not. Not this time."

"Miz Charleston?"

I looked over at the patio door in surprise. Evidently Cal hadn't left for the day yet after all. "Yes?"

"There's a gentleman here to see you, ma'am."

JD and I exchanged raised eyebrows. "Are one of your gentleman callers expected to take you out tonight?" JD asked me with a sly smile on his face. I do believe that boy enjoyed attempting to play matchmaker. He was always encouraging me to take time for myself lately – to enjoy the company of either the banker from Louisville or the fellow horse breeder from just south of Nashville who had become semi-regular callers of late. I bore his tinkering in my life with a healthy dash of humor.

"Not that I know of," I said, rising and putting my iced tea down on the low table between the chaise lounges. "You go on, Cal – I'll take care of this."

"Yes, ma'am." The sturdy stable hand gave me a quick nod and turned to head back into the house – no doubt heading for the lockers we maintained for the help to keep their belongings in while at work here.

"You want me to help?" JD asked with raised eyebrows. He knew all too well that I enjoyed my chance to wind down in the evening without outside interference. He might tease me about things, but he could just as quickly turn very defensive of my privacy.

"Nah," I waved him to settle back down. "I probably won't be long. It's probably someone who doesn't realize that SOME of us aren't waited on hand and foot and try to keep to a schedule."

I followed in Cal's footsteps into the house – only I kept going straight, heading for the foyer in which most of the visitors here were asked to wait for assistance. I noted as I passed through the kitchen that the timer on my oven – in which I had a pan full of chicken roasting and making the house smell delightfully like a home – was nearly spent. I'd need to tend to my supper soon. Hopefully I could deal with this man and then be able to take my time with the vegetables and gravy…

I knew who my visitor was the moment I looked around the corner into the living room – where so many of the strangers here wandered as they waited – and saw longish silver hair. "My God!" I exclaimed as I hesitated, stunned – and Sydney turned around with that huge, wide, warming smile of his. "You came!"

He stepped toward me – a limping step aided with the use of a silver-tipped cane. "You told me you were holding me to my promise," he reminded me in his smooth and accented baritone that I hadn't heard for over five years as he reached out for me. "And as I never make promises I don't intend to keep, I had to come – especially when I spoke to Jarod and found out that you were not otherwise involved with anyone else seriously. That was, of course, the most important consideration…"

I chuckled even as I stepped into his embrace with a sigh of relief and relaxed against him as his arms closed around me. "How did you manage to weasel that out of Jarod?" I asked, my face pressed against his upper chest.

Sydney chuckled too. "Oh, I have my ways – always have. Jarod was never able to keep many secrets from me for long."

"Jarod knows you're here?" I turned my head to look up at him.

He was shaking his head. "Not really. I called him to let him know I was back from Albany – and then the conversation somehow managed to shift in your direction. As an interested party, I had inquired after you and then simply kept the discussion alive until I had all the information I required." He released me and set me back from him a bit. "You look well – Jarod said that this life of yours agreed with you."

"Good honest work always did," I smiled at him – and then glanced at his cane. "What happened there? Are YOU all right?"

He shrugged his very cosmopolitan shrug. "Oh. That. This…" He lifted the cane dramatically. "…comes courtesy of a patch of ice on the sidewalk outside my front door this past winter. I was rushing to catch a ride and didn't watch where I was going carefully enough. I was laid up long enough that I finally bit the bullet and retired."

"Really!" The idea that he'd been nowhere near the Centre when it ended up on the news every night was amazing. "How long ago was this?"

"I fell in January, and retired in early March – I was long gone from the Centre before everything fell apart in April."

"I'm glad you had retired by then," I was serious now. "I used to listen to the news reports and pray I didn't hear your name as someone who'd been arrested."

"Peg," he said my name gently and reached out to cup my face. "Even if I'd still been working, the official consequences of my sins would have fallen victim to the statute of limitations a long time ago – at least, as far as the law of the land was concerned. The search for Jarod never really violated any laws – except maybe breaking and entering, for which no charges were filed. I was in never in any danger of arrest."

I gazed into his eyes. "Where have you been?" I asked softly. "The Centre started falling apart in April – you retired a month before that. And you hadn't answered my emails…"

"I only had email at work, remember," he told me very gently, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Besides, like I said, I was off my feet until well into May getting my knee and hip to let me get around again – and then I spent some time in Albany lately."

Now I remembered. "With Nicholas?"

He nodded, a soft smile on his face. "At least we're not estranged anymore. He may not call me "Dad," but we're friends at last. And getting in touch with you was much of the reason I contacted Jarod when I came back. I knew roughly where you were – but wasn't sure I could find you when the time came, OR whether you would welcome the visit."

"I was afraid you'd forgotten." It was the truth, and it was whispered because it had hurt so to even consider.

"You always did have too little faith in yourself," he replied very softly, that thumb moving very slowly, very carefully. "There are some things a man will never forget – that kind of promise being one of them."

I could feel the draw of those hypnotic eyes – eyes in which I could clearly see the same loneliness, the same need for human contact and affection, as I'd seen before, combined with a simmering want that was positively magnetic. I was about to step closer to him again – to claim that which I'd been waiting five years for – when…

"Mom?"

Sydney didn't so much jerk back as let his hand drop away from me as I turned to face my son. "JD. I didn't hear you come in." I glanced at Sydney and saw his eyes studying my youngest boy's face intently. "Sydney, this is my son JD. JD, this is…"

"I remember you." JD's voice held a note of surprise and, oddly, gratitude. "You took over from Mr. Raines – right before Jarod managed to get me out of the Centre."

"It's good to see you again – JD, is it?" Sydney stated with a growing smile. "It has been a long time."

I could see that JD was taking in the fact that I was standing quite close to our guest, and that neither Sydney nor I was willing to back away from the other. "I didn't know that you two knew each other."

"Your mother was my guest several years ago – just before Jarod established her in this identity to keep her hidden from the Centre," Sydney explained patiently. "I promised her back then that when the Centre was no longer an issue, I'd come to see her again, to see how she was doing." I blinked. He was telling JD nothing more or less than the truth – and making it a whole lot less threatening in the process.

"OK…" I could see that it would take JD a while to digest that mote of information that I'd evidently neglected to tell him all this time – and no doubt, I'd be getting grilled about it later on. JD turned his attention to me now. "I just wanted to tell you that I got a call from Nathan, wanting to know if I wanted to go with him and Sue and Julie to the premier in Louisville after all. You don't mind if I duck out on you tonight and take the van?"

"Not at all." I was elated, as a matter of fact. I would be able to have Sydney all to myself – for dinner and whatever might come afterwards. "Are you all going to stay at Sue's grandparents' house tonight then, or drive back?" Sue, the fiancée of JD's best friend Nathan, had grandparents that lived in Louisville and offered to house groups of friends who came into the city for social or entertainment purposes with their granddaughter. JD had spent several nights with his friends there – and I always considered the outing as good for him. Not to mention that I knew Julie Cavandish was sweet on him, and I thoroughly approved of her – especially when evenings like this ended up with at least a token chaperone…

"Sue was talking about staying over the night." JD flashed me a smile. "Thanks, Mom." He put out a hand. "It's good to see you again, Sydney. Will you be staying in the area long?"

"He'll be staying here," I spoke up quickly and then shrugged at Sydney's raised eyebrows at my impertinence. "We have plenty of room here – it's ridiculous that you should have to rent a room."

Once more JD's eyes went back and forth between me and the former Centre shrink, eventually landing on mine with a touch of mischief in their depths. "Well, you two behave while I'm away – and I'll see you tomorrow morning sometime." He bent forward and deposited a kiss on my cheek. "Good to see you looking less glum now, should I wonder why?" he whispered conspiratorially at me.

"Shush!" I hissed at him and swatted at his shoulder playfully, blushing a bit. "Have fun, honey."

"Don't forget you have dinner in the oven," he reminded me with a smirk on his lips that looked altogether too much like his older brother's, "it would be a shame to burn it." And then he scooted away from me heading up the stairs before I could swat at him again.

I glanced over at Sydney, only to find him watching where JD had gone with a shaking head and a chuckle. "What?"

"Amazing," he breathed and then turned to me. "He is so much like Jarod was at that age – and yet, he is his own person. You've done well by him in a very short time and should be verrrry proud of yourself. I remember a closed, emotionally disconnected and abused young man. And now – he can laugh and joke and tease very confidently. The change in him is remarkable."

"I used every last piece of advice you gave me in your emails," I confessed. "And helping him helped me. But you knew it would."

"I had my suspicions and hopes."

I looked about. "Do you have luggage? I can show you to the guest room before I have to take care of finishing up my supper – before it burns, like JD said…"

Sydney gazed evenly at me, his eyes once more beginning to smolder. "Are you sure that doing so will neither put you out or compromise your reputation?"

"My reputation?" Where had THAT come from?

He nodded. "Indeed. Jarod went to great lengths to tell me about how there were at least a couple of well-connected and responsible gentlemen who have been calling on you lately."

"Sydney?"

He smiled at me. "Yes?"

"Will you please go get your suitcase?"

oOoOo

"If I eat another bite, I'm going to explode," Sydney sighed contentedly, pushing his dessert plate back. "I remember your making that chicken dish while you stayed with me – I froze the leftovers and enjoyed that meal about three more times before it was all gone."

I smiled contentedly. I'd been cooking for an appreciative son – but I'd forgotten how Sydney and I had enjoyed the friendly competition in the kitchen all those years ago. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." I rose and began gathering up the dishes. "This shouldn't take long…"

"Let me help you." He rose as well and had the platter of remaining chicken and the potatoes in hand before I could complain that guests don't do dishes. I led the way back into the kitchen and indicated where I wanted him to put the stuff and began rinsing the plates to go into the dishwasher.

I knew he'd brought the rest of it in, because I was soon packing away vegetables and gravy as well. But then, as I was finishing up dumping the rest of my buttered peas into a plastic bag, I felt something tug on my hair – and then it was loose.

"This is longer than it was before," Sydney was shaking the braiding from my hair and spreading it across my shoulders. "It should always be loose – you look so pretty with it about your face…" I could feel him running his fingers through it.

"I braid it – or put it up – to keep it from snarling when I'm riding or working outside," I told him, almost purring with the feel of his hands on me. I quickly stowed the bag of peas in the fridge – hating to move away from him at all – and set the controls on the dishwasher to take over the rest of that task as well. Then, finally, I turned to him. "There. All done."

He put out a hand to me. "We have a discussion to finish as promised, if memory serves," he said in a warm tone that set my nerves tingling.

"I know," I said, stepping forward and putting my hand in his. Yes, it was time. "Come with me."

I led him through the house and out the front door onto the wide verandah. On the west side was an old fashioned wooden porch swing – one that Jarod and JD kept carefully maintained because of my preference on warm summer evenings to sit there and watch the sun go down. I led Sydney there and sat down to hold the seat steady while he settled himself in next to me and put his cane on the floor near his feet.

"This is nice," he commented, putting an arm along the back of the swing – and I settled against him and smiled as that arm found a home on my shoulder.

"It's my favorite seat in the whole place," I replied, leaning my head into his chest comfortably and genuinely enjoying the sensation of my heart beginning to speed up when his arm tightened just that much more around me.

His legs were longer than mine, and they started the swing moving back and forth very gently. "When Jarod told me about your gentlemen callers, I began to wonder whether or not we'd ever be able to sit like this." His voice lowered. "I have to admit, I was a bit jealous that others had been able to enjoy your company while I was forced to keep my distance."

"They had my company – and nothing more," I reassured him in a soft voice. "I never let them think there would be anything more either."

He fell into a thoughtful silence – and I was reminded how even silences had been filled with potential for this man. I didn't mind it a bit – I was happier now than I'd been in a very long time, and very content to be sitting on a front porch swing with him holding me gently to him. If I could have dreamed this moment, it couldn't have been more perfect. All the doubt and despair I'd been feeling earlier in the day, when I was worried that he'd forgotten his promise to me, was gone.

"Penny for your thoughts," I nudged him gently when the silence continued longer than I expected.

"I've been sitting here, thinking about all the times I dreamed about holding you this way," he replied, dropping his nose into my hair, "and realizing that the reality is by far preferable. Even when I was in Albany last month, I found myself daydreaming about this day and you." That was quite an admission – I knew that he'd often wondered in his early emails to me if there were any residual feelings between himself and Nicholas' mother.

"At least I don't have to feel jealous about that, then," I wrapped my right hand across him and held him back.

"Nope," he kissed my forehead. "If there ever had been anything there, it was long gone. I lost my heart to you five years ago – and there was no going back. If the trip did anything, it only brought that point home very clearly."

"Good." I was even more content – and more than a little touched with his subtle declaration.

"I'm an old man, Peg," he continued after another lengthy silence. "My joints are stiff and don't want to move, I can't walk well…"

"I'm not exactly young myself, Sydney," I reminded him. "I have a shoulder that is barely healed and an arm that sometimes doesn't want to work…"

"Am I hurting you?" He immediately loosened his hold on me.

"Am I squirming to get away?" I retorted and pressed in closer. "I think it feels better being held against you, if you want to know the truth."

"I didn't know you'd been injured," he chided.

"Your nemesis was a patch of ice in January, mine was a skittish three-year-old named Bounder in April." I felt his arm close around me again. "Besides, age is a relative concept. They say you're only as old as you feel."

Sydney's chest told me he was chuckling silently. "Age might play a fairly important part if we decide to pick up where we left off that night and move forward," he finally laughed at me. "Age and arthritis tend to play hell on the stamina."

I smiled against him and felt my heart give a heavy thump that spoke of how much I had wanted this day to come – as well as the subtle hint at where our day was going to end. "I think we can let that part take care of itself when the time comes, don't you?" I chuckled back at him. I could be subtle too – when I put my mind to it.

"Fair enough." His hand on my shoulder began to move, rubbing down my arm and across my shoulder blade. "It's enough for me to know that we both have a clear idea where we're headed – and that it seems we're still both headed in the same direction." He grew silent for a moment. "No more walking away," he said, more to himself than to me, with quiet vehemence.

I turned my head so that I could look up at him, and I saw him looking down at me with a look of intense longing. "I'm here," I told him softly. "I'm not going anywhere." I pulled my hand from his waist and reached up to cup his face. "I've been waiting for you. No more walking away for you either, Sydney – not this time."

"I love you, Peg," he groaned and suddenly bent to press his lips to mine and take away my ability for rational thought. Everything I had felt on the day I'd left him behind in Blue Cove came flooding back – and I poured five years of longing into my embrace as the kiss instantly deepened. His hands, suddenly, were in my hair, on my face, at my neck – everywhere caressing, stroking. Mine caught at his shoulders and tangled in the soft curls at the nape of his neck – curls that I'd always wanted to toy with.

I couldn't get close enough to him – and he evidently felt the lack as well. His hand swept behind my knees and pulled me up into his lap so that he could hold me tighter to him. I had forgotten just how wonderful it could be to be loved and caressed and kissed in this way – and I arched my neck as his lips traced a fiery trail over my jaw and down onto my throat.

In the end, we abandoned the porch swing long before the sun was completely down.

oOoOo

I stirred awake to find myself still with my head on Sydney's shoulder, still wrapped in his arms. I really didn't want to awaken, in case everything that had gone into putting me in this situation was nothing but an incredibly detailed and glorious dream and I'd find myself clutching my pillows yet again. But then I shifted against him slightly and felt the glorious slip of skin against skin, and finally let myself believe that my dream was no dream.

"Good morning," his voice rumbled at me sleepily.

I rolled myself up onto my good shoulder and opened my eyes to find the early morning light pouring in my bedroom window – and then closed them again as I bent down to kiss him. "Good morning," I slurred and settled back against the shoulder that had been my pillow. "What time is it?"

He grunted softly, and then I could feel him rolling and stretching a little – reaching for the clock on the nightstand, no doubt. "Seven-thirty," was the eventually response, followed by his arms settling back around me again.

Reluctantly I groaned and began to move. "I gotta get up…" I began – only to be held quite securely in place. "Sydney…"

"Not yet," he purred at me, and I relented. I honestly didn't want to move. "I'm enjoying the moment," he told me after a gentle kiss. "We waited long enough for this, you know..."

"JD will be home soon, though," I told him warningly, "and my stable hands will be at the back door at eight o'clock sharp…"

"That's a whole half an hour from now," he pointed out, tightening his hold on me. "Settle down. Besides, we have a discussion that needs to take place."

I wrapped my arm around his middle and turned to kiss the lightly-furred chest beneath my head as I snuggled closer. "I thought we finished that discussion more than adequately last night – twice, in fact!" I commented in a thoroughly satisfied tone. My body was still singing to me in a delightfully used manner as to how completely we'd finished that discussion. Sydney had been a very thorough, gentle and attentive lover – having more than enough stamina for the evening, despite his musings about age and arthritis to the contrary. He'd made me feel as seductive and attractive as I might ever have been when I was younger. I could only hope that I'd been able to please him even half as much as he had me.

"Very true, and that's one particular discussion I can promise you we'll be having a good many times in the future," he chuckled and kissed my forehead, and then grew serious. "But no, there's another topic that needs our attention now, Peg. We need to decide where we go from here."

That took much of the incentive to leave the bed away almost immediately. I tightened my hold on his waist. "All I know is that I don't want to lose you – not now," I whispered almost frantically. "I couldn't bear it! Don't let this be just a passing…"

"Oh, Peg!" he replied and with a finger beneath my chin lifted my head so that he could give me a full and passionate kiss. "Didn't you hear me? That part of it isn't in question at all, trust me," he reassured me when we parted again – and I relaxed against him again contentedly. "You know as well as I do that neither of us would have waited five years just to have a one-night stand and then say goodbye. Last night, as good as it was, was only the beginning. No, the real question now is do I move in with you here or do you move in with me in Delaware, or do we just get together regularly – you coming to my place and my coming to yours to cohabit for a few days or a week at a time – or what?"

"And how do we tell the others," I finished for him. "I'm afraid not all of them will be pleased with this – I don't think Jarod especially will understand my finding happiness with anybody but Dan."

"Your children – and the few people on my end who are dear to me – are going to be important parts of how we manage this relationship, that's for certain," he nodded against his pillow.

"We have a relationship now?" I teased him gently.

"We could have a marriage, if that's what you wanted," he told me and then gazed at me evenly as I rolled myself up on my good shoulder again to look at him in surprise. "But that still leaves us with the question of "my place or yours", doesn't it?"

"Marriage?" I breathed at him. "You're serious?"

He reached up and tucked a long tendril of grey-red hair behind my ear. "Quite serious," he replied, no hint of jest at all in either his tone or his eyes. "I refuse to wait five years or even five days to be with you again – which pretty much does in the part-time cohabit option. I'm also not entirely certain that you would do well or even want to leave things undeclared between us. We have your children and my… people… to consider – they all probably would disapprove of us more if we merely stayed occasional lovers than if we made this a more formal, a more permanent, arrangement." His lips twitched in the beginnings of that smirk that I suspected Jarod had inherited from him. "And then there's your reputation in the community to consider…"

"My rep… Sydney!" My mouth was agape. Where WAS he getting this stuff??

"As you can see, I prefer the marriage route myself," he continued, his eyes twinkling, "if for no other reason than it tells your other fine southern gentlemen callers definitely to hitch up their wagons and take a hike." I could only stare at him. "Well – so – what do you say?"

"Is that a proposal?" I finally managed.

"I can't get down on one knee anymore, Peg – it hurts too damned much – but yes, this is a proposal. Will you marry me and let me make an honest woman of you?" The twinkle died in his eyes, replaced by a haunting look of hope and uncertainty that I almost ached to soothe.

"I love you," I whispered as I first stretched up for a soft kiss and then settled back down on his shoulder with a happy sigh. "And yes, I'll marry you – as if you were ever in any doubt of my answer after last night."

Now it was his turn to rise up over me, dumping me into my pillow in the process. "Do you know that's the first time you've said that to me?"

I reached up to him. "I promise you that it won't be the last time," is all I was able to say before he was kissing me again.

"I'm going to hold you to that," Sydney told me between kisses, "and to your promise to marry me."

All I could think of was our exchange five years ago – and how suitable his response had been at the time. "You are, are you?" I managed and then giggled just before he kissed me again in a way that, if we weren't careful, would mean that we'd be way more than a half hour getting out of this bed after all.

When he finally released me, I began to move again. "And now I really do have to get going," I told him ruefully, pushing back the blankets and sheets and slipping out of his embrace. "I promise you we'll talk through the "my place or yours" part of this discussion – and how to tell the others – after breakfast and after I've set up the day's schedule for the help."

He watched me walk to my closet without a stitch of clothing on and retrieve a robe and pair of slippers with a simmering gaze that had my nerves tingling again. "Have I told you lately how damned attractive you are?" he rumbled and then threw back the covers and went in search of his trousers and boxers so that he could at least go back to the guest room and dig through his suitcase for clean clothes without worrying about flashing someone.

"No," I answered him with a saucy smile that was born of the elation of knowing that my days of being alone were over, "but we could probably fit that in with the "your place or mine" discussion after breakfast, if you want."

oOoOo

I never regretted the decisions we made that day – nor the effort that it took to convince the rest of those dearest to us to accept what we'd known and lived with for so long. In the end, everyone we loved most came around, even Jarod; although with him, the road to acceptance was longer, rougher and filled with more potholes than with any of the others. Eventually, however, he was able to make peace with the notion that somehow, without his knowledge or permission, his mother had fallen in love with the man who had been his surrogate father at the Centre, and vice versa. He who had struggled so hard to reunite his family had to accept that the boundaries and definition of family needed to be flexible enough to withstand change.

And what changes there were. There was an unexpected factor to consider when Sydney decided to leave Delaware behind and join me in Kentucky – a man by the name of Angelo. Autistic, sensitive Angelo had dropped into Sydney's care abruptly when the Centre doors had closed forever – and would need supervision and care for the rest of his life as the result of the abuse visited on him during his decades as a Centre victim. I was worried that we wouldn't be able to handle him until JD caught his first glimpse of the strange little man climbing from Sydney's car. From that moment on, JD and Angelo were inseparable – and JD spared no time teaching Angelo the workings of the ranch and how to handle horses. Angelo, with his many unusual talents, could easily become one of the best horse handlers I'd ever seen – and his autistic tendencies faded slowly until they were more like eccentric quirks easily tolerated.

Then there was Miss Parker – the daughter of my old friend whose voice had scared me half to death once upon a time. Sydney had played the role of surrogate father to her almost as long as he'd played it for Jarod, and he'd been there to support her as all the other important players in her life abandoned her or were taken from her one by one. She who had a façade that was tough as nails and capable of reducing a man to jello with just a look was herself nearly reduced to tears by the thought that, in moving away, Sydney was at long last abandoning her too. I think that surprised Sydney almost more than it did me – and I know that the process of reassuring her brought the two of them closer than ever before.

But by the time the leaves had fallen and snow was threatening in the sky, we were almost settled into our new life. Winter had come early to New England, where Sydney and I were in the process of packing his belongings for shipping to Kentucky. JD and Angelo were handling things at the ranch, leaving Sydney and me to travel that one last time to Blue Cove.

The living room of his beautiful Washington Street home was half packed away now – most of the books carefully stored in boxes for their trip to the new library at Charleston Stables that Jarod and Ethan had built for me in what had been my own huge living room. The furniture would be the last to go – that which would be shipped would be picked up with the boxes of books in the afternoon by the movers, and the rest of it was being taken by a used furniture dealer in Dover to be sold on commission.

It was evening, and I'd had built a fire in that magnificent fireplace to ward away the chill that wanted to fill the house from outside. Finished and satisfied with my efforts, I curled up on the end of that comfortable leather couch and considered the many changes in my life since the last time I'd sat there like that. I had been alone – where now I had a loving and attentive husband. I had been wracked with panic attacks and fears of the unknown – where now I was content and assured in my life. I had been a fugitive from life itself – where now I was a celebrant.

"Penny for your thoughts," Sydney purred at me, his hands full of two steaming mugs in which I could smell some of his hot buttered rum.

Oh, just thinking," I replied, taking the one mug from him and sipping at it carefully. "Remembering."

He limped around the end of the couch and sat down, laying both his cane and his mug on the coffee table in front of him so he could seat himself comfortably and then taking up the mug again. "That was a hard day for you," he remembered too. "I really wondered for a while that you might have finally broken – you had me verrrry worried."

I shifted along the length of the couch until I could curl my legs beneath me and snuggle up to him. I sighed contentedly as his one arm wrapped around my shoulders and held me close, and I sipped at the rum again. "I don't even like to think about that day anymore," I told him quietly.

As was often his habit at times like these, and as had happened quite often since we'd returned to Delaware, Sydney fell silent – and I could tell that he was thinking. But, as usual, I wasn't uncomfortable with his silences at all. I leaned into him and smiled as his hand began to rub my shoulder – which had been aching badly most of the day from the cold – and occasionally tangling a finger or two in my hair and playing with it. I could tell he was thinking about that night so long ago, when I'd come looking for him and he'd been obligated by his professional ethics to turn away from something we'd both wanted and needed desperately.

"You know," he said finally, after taking another sip of his rum and then setting his mug on the table in front of us so he could wrap me with both of his arms, "when you came to me, shaking and upset that day, I had no idea that I'd turned such a major corner in my life just by letting you into the car." His arms around me tightened. "But you changed everything for me that next night. From then on, every time I started to think about how alone I was – I would think of you, sitting here on my couch, virtually begging me to make love to you to prove to you that you were still attractive – that Dan was wrong. And every time, I would be amazed that you had come to me – ME…"

His fingertip touched his chest over his heart. "You became my amulet after that night – one I wore in here…" He fell silent again for a brief moment with a shake of the head. "I didn't deserve you – and yet you just… became a part of me that night. Whenever I wondered if I could ever be treated like a whole person again, despite everything I'd done over the years, I could think of you sitting there wanting me and know that somewhere inside, I was still human – that someone could still want me around."

"Sydney…" His musings had touched me deeply. I'd known what he'd meant to me for those five, long years; but to hear it from his perspective…

"And now, here we are."

I leaned forward and put my mug on the table next to his and then settled back against him within the circle of his arm. "Yes – here we are." I reached up and cupped his cheek with a hand warm from the mug to get him to look down at me. "Six years later, we're sitting on the same couch, in front of a nice warm fire – and we're together at last." I let my hand fall to wrap around his neck and snuggled in close again. "Sometimes happy endings DO come for people like us. Not often, but sometimes…"

His lips pressed against my forehead during another of his long moments of thoughtful silence. "Back in the days when I was first working with Jarod," he began again, "I decided that there had to be a safe-word instituted – something that Jarod could say that would tell me that he'd reached his limits. It was important to me not to take a small child past his limits – so I chose the word "refuge". When he was scared, or needed to back away from what he was doing for whatever reason, he could say "refuge" and I'd know to stop."

"You are MY refuge, Sydney," I told him softly. "You were that night six years ago, and you have been my refuge every night since then – whether you were with me or not. The day I came to you was the day I stopped running." I pressed against him. "I love you."

A gentle finger lifted my face to him. "I love you," he whispered to me and then bent to kiss me the way he might have six years ago – the way he would from now on.

And never again would I have to wonder what it would be like to be with him, to be loved by him, on this couch on a cold, winter's night in Blue Cove. I'd found my refuge – and I promised myself that I'd never leave it again. It was a promise I intended to keep.


End file.
